


Like Real People Do

by xiaq



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Closeted Character, Coming Out, Disabled Character, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hockey, I just want Kent Parson to be happy ok, Injury, Injury Recovery, Living Together, M/M, NCAA hockey, NHL, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, TBI, but only like 2 chapters of REAL angst, figure skating, parsepositive, service dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2018-11-19 03:29:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 50
Words: 153,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11304786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xiaq/pseuds/xiaq
Summary: Parson gestures with his spoon toward Hawke. “So am I allowed to ask about the service dog or is that not PC?”“My medical history is more of a 3rd date conversation," Eli says.“Oh? Why’s that?”“Because. No one sticks around afterward and I like to live in glorious denial for a short period beforehand.”It comes out more self-deprecating than he intended.Parson looks…thoughtful. “Well, does this count as one or two?“Pardon?”“This. Ice cream. I mean, technically it’s a second location, but still the same night. So is this one date or two?”“One,” Eli says firmly. “If it’s happening within the same three-hour period.”“You’re the expert,” Parson says, which, he’s really, really, not, but ok.“So still two dates to go then?” Parson continues.“I—what?”“We’ve got a roadie coming up but then we’re home for almost two weeks. When does your semester start?”“You want to do this again?” Eli asks.Parson stops idly twirling his spoon.“You don’t?”He does, Eli realizes. He really does. Because apparently he actuallylikesKent fucking Parson.





	1. Chapter 1

There are admittedly worse things in the world than having to walk two blocks on a Wednesday morning in July.

Eli knows, from experience, that there are worse things in the world.

Like being diagnosed with epilepsy at sixteen.

Like having heat-induced seizures and living in Nevada.

Yes, objectively, he knows there are worse things. But right at this moment he can’t think of many because its 8 am and he isn’t allowed to have caffeine because they’ve just changed his medication again and he’s had to park in the visitor’s garage because the only _two_ handicapped spaces at the north entrance of the Las Vegas Aces Official Practice Facility had been occupied by _one_ parallel-parked Land Rover decidedly lacking in handicap tags.

_Motherfucking hockey players_ , Eli says to the empty sidewalk.

So now he’s running late, because it’d taken him an extra ten minutes to find the visitor’s lot, and he’d still needed to stop and let his dog pee before they entered the complex because being the disabled kid was bad enough but being the disabled kid whose service dog peed in the rink on the first day of practice would probably guarantee he never had a collegiate social life to speak of. Not that he was holding out particularly high hopes for that anyway.

The security guard at the door barely glances at his newly-printed student ID before waving him to the left with a tired, “Rink Three, end of the hallway on your right.”

She looks like she could use some coffee too.

“Right. Thanks.” Eli shifts his backpack, sparing a last hateful glance at the Land Rover outside.

“Hey, you happen know whose car that is out front? License plate KP90?”

She lifts one eyebrow. “You mean Kent Parson?”

Because of course. Of course it was _Kent fucking Parson_. Eli tries to avoid too much familiarity with the hockey world but there are some things you just know if you spent enough time around ice and one of those things is the name of the youngest current captain in the NHL, who is apparently just as much of a douche off the ice as tabloids would suggest.

Eli takes a steadying breath. “You know where I could find him?”

The security guard considers Eli’s expression, then the dog at his feet, then the ill-parked vehicle outside.

“I take it you don’t want an autograph?”

“No.”

She gives him an apologetic smile. “I don’t think I can actually have his car towed, but I can file a complaint, if you’d like.

“That would be great, thanks.”

He starts to move forward again before pausing.

“Actually, do you know if Jeff Troy is back from IR yet?”

Which, okay, he didn’t make a habit of following hockey, but when he’s potentially in the same building as a gold-medal-winning world-junior figure-skater-turned-NHL-player, he’d like to know.

“Yep. As of this week he’s cleared to skate no-contact in practices.” She grins. “He also parks in the players’ lot like he’s supposed to.”

Eli would expect nothing less.

“They’re in practice for the next two hours. But sometimes Troy does the meet and greet afterward.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, rink 2.” She nods to the right hallway. “Parson will be there too, but he almost never comes out afterward.”

“Shocking.”

The doors open behind him and a tall, entirely-too-awake girl wearing a hijab that matches her leggings grins at them both, handing over her student ID.

“Morning,” she says, careful not to run over Hawke’s tail with her rolling skate bag. “Your dog is beautiful.”

“Thanks,” he says. “Are you a freshman too?”

Which is a stupid question because he knows the rest of the figure skating team isn’t supposed to start practice for another week. Obviously she’s there for freshman orientation just like he is.

“Yeah!” she says, apparently immune to his idiocy. “Just moved in last night. Thank goodness for coffee, right? I’m so nervous I didn’t sleep at all.”

“Right,” he agrees, wryly.

She gets her ID back from the security guard and they start down the left hallway together.

“It’s so cool that the Aces share their facilities with the university. Did you know that their practices are open to the public? I think I might go try to get an autograph or two later if we have time.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I might join you.”

***

Practice is good. It’s not a real practice because it’s the first day, but he meets the coach and trainers, learns all the other freshmen’s names and then promptly forgets them, signs a bunch of paperwork and then spends a few extra minutes going over his medical information with the team doctor. Hawke keeps an unobtrusive down/stay on the first row of bleachers and watches, bored, as they warm up, do some drills, and then call it a day. No one asks about the dog or the scars, and he doesn’t volunteer any information. It’s strange to have that option. He’s used to everyone knowing everything about him. The accident. The diagnosis. The dog. Hell, half of his hometown donated money to the Gofundme for his initial treatment and got weekly updates on his recovery. He can’t decide if it’s a relief or a new form of stress to be surrounded by people who don’t already know his story. Everyone knowing your business is annoying, but it also means no one asks questions.

He didn’t work up enough of a sweat to need a shower afterward, and he decides he should definitely stay in the igloo for a few more minutes before making the walk back to his car, so he accompanies Morgan (too-awake-but-friendly-girl from earlier) and another girl (tiny, Asian, enviable quads) who he’s pretty sure is also named Morgan, which isn’t confusing at all, to catch the last few minutes of the Aces’ practice.

There are surprisingly few people in the stands: a haggard looking mother with a pair of toddler boys, a small group of college-aged girls who are probably also students, and a pair of old (retired?) men.

He sits with the Morgans on the bleachers closest to the ice behind the far goal and crosses his arms. Hawke is a solid press of warmth against his leg, the Morgans are talking quietly about some Russian player who was traded to the team that year, and, sitting still, surrounded by a soft buzz of conversation and the noise of skates and sticks on ice, he suddenly remembers how tired he is.

He jerks when the buzzer goes off and players start to leave the rink. The rookies stay and one of the goalies comes back out to help while they practice slapshots. Troy hangs around a bit later than the other veterans, and, surprisingly, Parson does too, leaning on his stick and occasionally calling out advice to the baby aces. Once the ice is cleared and the Zamboni comes out, Eli follows the Morgans into the hallway outside where, according to the other spectators, the players will emerge to…he doesn’t know. Bask in the adoration of their fans? Sign hats? Take awkward selfies?

The players start to trickle out fifteen minutes later and it appears to be a combination of all three. The Morgans try and fail to contain their excitement over the appearance of a man who doesn’t look much older than them but is probably a solid foot taller. They take several pictures apiece with him, and he handles it with more grace than some of the other players, laughing softly at their enthusiasm, his accent lilting and indistinct. _Russian_ , Eli thinks, and then startles because Jeff Troy has just exited the locker room.

There aren’t many people who seem concerned about Troy, which makes sense as he’s a recent trade and just back from IR—the pair of toddlers who’ve clearly met him before get high fives and one of the older men shakes his hand and gestures broadly toward the ice. Troy grins, gesturing himself, and then shakes his head pleased, maybe embarrassed, before the man steps back, waving goodbye.

Eli does what any other self-respecting teenage fan would do in this situation and promptly loses his cool entirely.

“Hey!” He says, too loud. “Jeff Troy!”

Troy jerks, half-turned to head back into the locker room, then adjusts his course, walking over.

“Hi,” he says, and _damn_ , the man is even prettier in person.

“Hi,” Eli parrots.

Troy’s smile widens at the probably idiotic expression on Eli’s face.

“Your dog is beautiful,” he says.

“You’re beautiful,” Eli answers because, hey, go big or go home, right?

One of the Morgans chokes on a laugh behind him.

Surprisingly, this causes Troy to flush.

“Ah, thank you. Not a compliment I get from most people.”

“Well most people are dumb. And you are. Beautiful.”

Troy badly suppresses a laugh. “You know I’m married, right?”

“And to all appearances tragically heterosexual, yes.”

“Tragically,” he agrees solemnly.

“Don’t worry, I’m not actually hitting on you. Though it is on my bucket list to go on a date with a hockey player, if you’re interested.”

He wiggles his eyebrows.

Troy doesn't try to suppress his laugh this time.

“Are you trying to play the pity card right now?”

“That depends. Is it working? I mean, you do Make-A-Wish shit, right?”

He gestures to Hawke, trying to look as feeble as possible. “Think of it as philanthropy.”

Troy outright laughs at that and Eli is about to ask for a picture and let the guy go before the joke gets old but before he has a chance to say anything else, the Morgans let out an aborted in-tandem shriek and behind Troy a voice yells,

“HEY SWOOPS what are you—oh my god, a _dog_.”

Eli glances up to find none other than Kent Parson leaning around the locker room door. He trips over himself to join them, graceless in a way that’s strange after seeing him on the ice.

“What’s a dog doing here?” Parson asks, beaming at Hawke and completely ignoring the minor tumult his appearance has caused.

“Swoops, why aren’t you petting him, look at this beautiful—“

Troy throws out an arm, blocking Parson from going down to his knees.

“Jesus, Parse, can you not read?”

It takes him a minute.

“Oh. Service dog. My bad, bro,” he says to Hawke, “didn’t mean to distract you. Er.” He glances up at Eli. “Him? Fuck. I’m sorry, I’m not supposed to talk to him, am I? I read something about this but I can’t remember.”

“No, you’re not supposed to talk to her. But you’re self-correcting, at least. That’s better than most folks,” Eli allows.

“I really am sorry,” Parson says, and the earnestness is disconcerting. “That must get super annoying.”

“Very,” Eli agrees.

Parson is biting his lip now, looking genuinely upset in a way that almost makes Eli forget that he’s a massive illegally-parked douchebag.

Troy drops one arm around Parson’s shoulders, pulling him in as if he has a secret to share.

“This one is trying to guilt me into going out with him,” Troy says conspiratorially, nodding toward Eli. “Apparently its on his bucket list to go on a date with a hockey player.”

“I think guilt is a strong word,” Eli says.

A tentative grin returns to Parson’s face. “Playing the pity card? Really?”

Eli shrugs. “Hey, chronic medical conditions come with a lot of suck, might as well embrace the occasional perks.”

“You realize Swoops is married, right?” Parson says, “And like. All about monogamy.”

“Yes.”

“And apparently tragically heterosexual,” Troy adds.

“That too,” Eli agrees.

Kent laughs, startled and real in a way that’s enough to make Eli take another look at him. Parson considers him as well, mouth still tipped up at the sides, eyebrows furrowed.

“I’m not married,” he says.

Eli squints at the nonsequitur.

“Okay?

“So does it have to be Swoops or will any hockey player do? Because I’m a hockey player. And I like food.”

Eli is probably gaping unattractively at him.

The Morgans are completely silent.

“I don’t--You want to take me on a date?”

“Sure, why not? I mean. I’d hate for you to drop dead tomorrow without fulfilling your bucket-list wish.”

“Oh my god, Kenny,” Troy mutters.

“You,” Eli says. “Kent Parson. Want to take me on a pity date.”

“I—yes?”

Troy makes a long-suffering noise. “Alright, I’m going to let you kids figure this out. I’ll see you later, Kenny.”

“Yeah,” Parson says distractedly. “See you tonight.”

They stare at each other for a moment and Eli realizes that the magazines and billboards must airbrush Parson’s freckles out which is a shame because they’re pretty damn cute. Especially when he wrinkles his nose at the awkward silence between them.

“You’re serious,” Eli says finally.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you’re _Kent fucking Parson_?”

Parson runs a hand through his damp hair which does nothing to dissuade the cowlick right above his left eyebrow.

“Why does everyone say my name like that?”

“Sorry, I just. It was a joke. I wasn’t actually expecting to—you’re really serious?”

“Yes.”

“You know I’m gay, right?”

Parson glances from the rainbow patch on Hawke’s vest to the skin-tight leggings and off-the-shoulder shirt Eli’s wearing.

“Yeah, I kinda figured.”

“And that…doesn’t bother you?”

“What the fuck, don’t look at me like I’m going to steal your lunch money, I’m not a homophobe.”

Which, Eli vaguely remembers hearing about some tweets that would contradict that, but he decides not to bring it up.

“Do you trust Swoops?” Kent says, bouncing from the balls of his feet to his heels. There’s a little line between his eyebrows and he looks upset again.

“Troy? Uh, I guess?”

“SWOOPS,” Parson yells, “TELL HIM I’M NOT A HOMOPHOBE!”

Eli covers his face with his hands.

Troy appears in the doorway of the locker-room again, looking fond, but exasperated.

“Kenny isn’t a homophobe,” he says, voice raised so that everyone who is now watching the situation can hear. “Just an idiot. I promise. Can I go home now?”

Eli waves him away with one hand, the other still covering his face.

Parson laughs, more self-deprecating than anything else.

“Ok, I admittedly didn’t think that through. I hope you’re ok with getting turned into a GIF because that’s definitely ending up online.”

“Oh god,” Eli mutters.

“So. Lunch? I’m kinda starving.”

“You want to go _now_?”

“Yes? Unless. I mean we could go some other time if you don’t—does it need to be a fancy dinner? We’ve got a stretch of away games starting tomorrow but—“

“No! No, lunch now is fine. That’s—it’s fine.”

“Great. Do you have everything you need?”

“Uh, no,” he jabs his thumb in the general direction of the other rink. “I left my stuff in the locker room.”

“Right. Well I’ll grab my bag and meet you there then. Rink three, right?”

“Right,” Eli says faintly.

Parson flashes him a grin and disappears around the corner at which point the Morgans converge upon him.

“That was Kent Parson,” tall Morgan says. “Kent Parson is taking you to lunch.”

“What the actual fuck,” tiny Morgan says. “How is this your life?”

“I don’t even know,” Eli says.

***

Parson meets him outside the locker room fifteen minutes later wearing mirrored sunglasses, a snapback, and a backpack that combined probably cost more than Eli’s skates.

Eli wonders if Parson’s frat-douche aesthetic is intentional.

“Ready?” Parson asks. “Oh, here, let me carry that.”

Eli wants to protest on principal as Parson slings his backpack over one shoulder, but it admittedly makes it much less difficult to wrangle Hawke’s leash and his skating gear without the bag to worry about.

“Gotta say I’m a little insulted that you thought I’d be a dick about the gay thing, but Swoops got immediate trust,” Parson says, walking back toward the facility entrance. “I mean. Swoops and I are in the same You Can Play video.”

Eli resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Well yeah, but you’re the Captain. I figured you had to. Everybody knows Troy has a transgender sister and he’s super supportive. And he has a charity fund just for LGBTQ youth and was like, completely extra taping his stick for pride night last year.”

“Okay, yeah, that’s valid. But still. I’m a little hurt.”

Eli can tell that it’s meant to be joking, but the words come out a little too honest.

“I’m not a dick,” Parson continues. “And if you—the thing on Twitter was a misunderstanding if that’s—“ He makes an annoyed noise in the back of his throat. “The point is, I’m not a dick,” he repeats, like it’s important Eli believe him. “I promise.”

“Right.” Eli says, and then, because he’s petty, “So that Land Rover parked across both handicapped spaces outside…”

Parson stops in the middle of the hallway.

“Oh shit. Fuck. I’m so sorry. I was running late and no one ever parks there this early—which, that’s not an excuse, I still shouldn’t have done it, I—alright, I’m definitely a dick.” He starts walking again, shoulders hunched. “Fuck. I really am. I’m such a dick.”

“Just not a homophobic dick?” Eli says gently.

“Right.”

They fall quiet as they pass the front desk and the security guard watches them with unrestrained curiosity.

“I won’t do it again,” Parson says, fishing his keys out of his pocket. “Swear to god. And I’ll make a donation to—I dunno. Something for disabled kids as an apology. And—and buy you dessert after lunch.”

“Jesus, Parson,” Eli says, “You weren’t going to include dessert with lunch before? You have a 1.5 million dollar annual salary, what kind of cheap date bullshit is that?”

Parson gives him a soft, thankful, smile.

“I would have. But now I’m taking you to the best frozen yogurt place in Vegas. It’s a secret. I haven’t even taken Swoops there.”

“Well,” Eli says, trying to ignore the facial expression of the listening security guard. “That sounds like a reasonable apology. Where are we going for lunch? I’ll go get my car and meet you there.”

“Oh—I thought we’d just take mine. Do you—is there something you need in yours?”

Eli looks pointedly at Hawke. “No, but I come with an 80 pound fur factory with sharp nails and you drive a car worth more than 100k.”

“Pretty sure she can’t do any more damage than Kit. Granted, Kits only like, six pounds. But she’s full of fury and has a religious opposition to leather seats, apparently.”

“I—Kit?” Eli asks, feeling a little lost.

Parson frowns at him.

“My cat.”

“You have a cat?”

“Uh. Yes? Kit Purson? She has her own Instagram. With over a million followers.”

He seems genuinely insulted that Eli doesn’t know this.

“Oh. That’s cool. What kind of cat?”

Parson brightens. “She’s kind of a mix? I got her from the shelter, but I have pictures,” he says, because of course he does. “You can look at them in the car, come on, your dog—what’s her name?”

“Hawke.”

“Hawke can chill in the back seat, let’s go, I’m starving.”

Eli allows Parson to hold the door for him, laughing a little at the still-baffled security guard as he unclips Hawke’s leash and tells her to get into the back seat. She settles happily, watching as they load the rest of their bags into the floorboards, and Eli finds himself, moments later, sitting in the passenger seat of Kent Parson’s car, scrolling through an album of cat pictures on Kent Parson’s phone while Kent Parson drives them to lunch.

What even.

He thinks absently that Eric isn’t going to believe him when they Facetime tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case there's any confusion: Jack and Kent are both 20/21 during this fic. Jack goes straight to Samwell after rehab and doesn't take a few years off to coach.


	2. Chapter 2

Eli didn’t really have a chance to cultivate an expectation of what lunch with a professional NHL player would be like.

He’s pretty sure this isn’t it, though.

Parson drives them to a storefront with a frankly obscene amount of tie dye and a sign font that is a little too close to Comic Sans for comfort. It’s called _The Pretty Bird Cafe_ and Eli honestly isn’t sure if this is supposed to be a joke or not.

“Okay,” Parson says, seeing Eli’s expression. “I know it looks a little wild but this place makes the best salads in Vegas and I’m assuming your nutritionist is just as uppity about protein-fiber ratios as mine is, so.”

This is admittedly true.

“The best salads,” Eli repeats, squinting at cafe, because, seriously, there’s so much tie dye.

“I promise.”

Parson takes his silence as acquiescence and hops out of the car, jogging over to open the passenger door before Eli can reach for it.

He takes off his snapback, running a hand through his hair before replacing it, as Eli gets Hawke out of the back seat.

“You know,” Eli says, “for someone who didn’t go to college you have the frat boy aesthetic down a little too well.”

He’s expecting a cutting retort but Parson actually looks a little put-out, hand moving back toward the hat he’s just released.

“What do you mean?”

Eli gestures toward Kent’s body as a whole.

“Floral snapback, Ray-bans, V-neck, Vans. You’re like a walking greek life advertisement.”

“Oh. Well. I have a stylist? She like, gives me options and I choose the ones I like.”

He fingers the ear piece of his glasses, shrugging.

“I’m not really familiar with fashion, so.”

Fantastic. Now Eli feels like the word’s biggest dick.

Parson holds open the cafe door, prompting all two dozen of the bells mounted above it to ring, and he smiles, maybe a bit forced, at the woman who waves to him from the back counter.

“We seat ourselves,” he says. “Booth?”

“Booth,” Eli agrees.

They choose a spot by the window and once Hawke is tucked neatly under the table, Parson hands him a menu.

“Just a heads up, some of the other guys come here for lunch pretty often too. So if Coots or Rushy or whoever shows up, feel free to ignore them.”

“Coots or Rushy?”

Eli knew hockey players were all about the nicknames, but honestly.

“Oh, uh. Alex Coothorpe and Evan Rushmore. Tater too, sometimes—Alexei Mashkov? And Nicky—Elias Nikisson.”

Eli purses his lips. “I have no idea who any of these people are.”

Parson pauses in the middle of unwrapping his silverware from a paper napkin. “But you were at practice. You” he gestures with his newly liberated fork “have your whole hockey player bucket list thing.”

“I have a confession to make,” Eli says.

Parson brightens. “Oh, my favorite. Hit me.”

“Its not actually on my bucket list to go on a date with a hockey player. For the most part, I actively avoid hockey players.”

“What? _Why_?”

“Uh…self preservation?”

Parson looks lost.

“I’m lost,” he says.

Elisighs. “Dude. I’m a gay mixed-race figure skater. I grew up in small-town Georgia. And I was stupid enough to come out when I was fourteen. I figured out pretty quick it was safest to avoid all sports teams. Granted, football was a more pressing every day concern but running into the hockey players at the rink was never a particularly fun experience either.”

“Oh.” Parson looks a little blindsided. A little hurt. Genuine in a way that surprises him. “Right,” Parson says. “That’s—that really sucks.”

He takes a breath like he’s going to say something else but a waitress skates over—on actual roller skates, what even is this place?—to deliver glasses of water and take their order.

“Usual?” she asks Parson.

“Yes, please,” he says.

She tries to hand Eli a menu but he waves her away. “I’ll have whatever he’s having.”

She nods and glides off.

“So,” Parson says, taking a sip of his water. “If you try to avoid hockey players, why were you at practice? And flirting with Swoops.”

“Oh my god, I wasn’t _actually_ flirting with him. It was a joke. And he’s not a hockey player—“

Parson raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “Okay, yes, asshole, he is _now_ , but I grew up watching him figure skate. He was only a few years older than me and when I was ten I memorized his entire gold-medal-winning world-junior routine. I could never do it clean, obviously, but still. I was so disappointed when he quit to focus on hockey in high school.”

“He’s a great hockey player,” Parson says, almost defensive. “The Aces are lucky to have him.”

“Oh. No, I know. The fact that he was able to get drafted in the second round after only four years of serious play was ridiculous. I have so much much respect for him as an athlete. I just.” Eli runs a finger through the condensation on his glass. “His routines were really, really, beautiful.”

Parson chews on his bottom lip for a moment, thoughtful.

“He still has figure skates. Sometimes he gets ice time on off-days and plays around a little. I caught him a few months back right before he was injured and he let me watch for a while.”

“I would literally kill a man to see that.”

“Kill a man?” Parson asks. “Really?”

“I mean. Probably not a nice man. Like. A shitty man?”

Parson laughs like Eli is joking.

“I could ask him.” Parson says, sounding unsure.“Maybe. He probably wouldn’t mind you watching as long as you didn’t like… Snapchat it or something.”

Eli doesn’t actually get a chance to respond, which is probably good because, in the moment, he likely would have embarrassed himself.

“Incoming,” Parson says, sitting up a little straighter, resigned. “Sorry. Hazard of hanging out with me.”

Eli doesn’t understand at first until he notices two teenage girls making their way purposely toward their table. He realizes that Parson thinks they’re coming to ask for his autograph, but Eli doesn’t actually think that’s the case because he’s intimately familiar with the look on the first girl’s face.

“Hi,” she says, glancing back and forth between them. “Can we pet your dog?”

Eli takes a moment to enjoy Parson’s perplexed expression.

“Sorry,” Eli says to the girls, trying not to laugh. “She’s a service dog and she’s working so you can’t pet her. Thanks for asking, though.”

“Oh,” the second girl says, ducking a little to look at Hawke under the table. “My bad, we couldn’t see her vest from over there. Tell her she’s doing a good job!”

“Will do.”

The girls link arms and return to their table.

Parson still looks baffled.

“You’re kind of used to being the center of attention,” Eli says, “huh?”

“I don’t—does that happen to you all the time?”

“Sorry,” Eli parrots. “Hazard of hanging out with me.”

“Oh my god. Shut up. I can’t help it that my face is on billboards all over this stupid city. I’m used to people recognizing me.”

Eli grins. “I’ll bet you five dollars that by the end of lunch more people will come to talk to me about Hawke then to get your autograph.”

Parson extends a hand. “I’ll take that bet.

They shake. Slowly.

Parson’s hand is surprisingly large, considering that he’s actually on the small-side for a hockey player.

Eli tries not to dwell on it.

“So, I’m assuming you’re a student at LVU?” Parson asks.

“Freshman. Just moved in yesterday.”

“Nice. Have you met your roommate yet? Rushy went to Boston for two years and all he has is horror stories.”

“No roommate. They gave me a single because of Hawke.”

“Oh. That’s…cool?”

“I guess. I’m definitely glad I’ll have my own space. But the whole forced socialization thing might have been handy.”

Parson tips his head to one side, bottom lip still tucked beneath his teeth.

“Why? You don’t seem shy.”

This is suddenly not a conversation he wants to be having.

“No. But I don’t really—I’m from a small town. My closest current relationships are the result of forced long-term cohabitation.” He circles his index finger around the rim of his glass. “I don’t really know how to make friends.”

“Oh. Yeah, I get that.”

Eli finds that hard to believe.

Parson can probably tell.

Parson bunches the paper wrapper for his straw between his thumb and forefinger, inhaling slowly, purposefully, the way Eli’s therapist makes him breathe when they’re talking about Serious Things that require Mindfulness. Eli wonders if Parson has a therapist.

“I didn’t really have time to make friends as a kid,” Parson says, “since everything from eight years old on was all about hockey. So I really only ever hung out with the kids on my teams, and I was so much better than most of them that they didn’t—and even if they _did_ it wasn’t because they actually liked me, I don’t think. And now… I think my teammates are my friends? I mean, I know some of them are. But I’m also their captain, so that’s. And almost all of them are older than me, and some are married and have kids and stuff, so.”

Despite the confluence of sentence fragments, Eli does, actually, understand.

“That sucks.”

The words seem woefully trite.

“Sometimes, yeah.”

They’re both looking very intently at their water glasses and Eli is considering escaping to the bathroom for a minute because there are very clearly some Emotions™ happening here, but then a little kid—thank god—waves wildly through the window at them and, a moment later, comes crashing in the door of the store. His father, a bit more sedate, catches the jangling door behind him, looking resigned.

“Are you Kent Parson?” the kid asks, eyes wide.

Kent laughs. “Yeah, buddy.”

“See, dad. I _told_ you!”

“Sorry,” the dad says, “There wasn’t any catching him after he recognized you.”

“No problem. You want an autograph?”

Kent smirks at Eli.

Eli rolls his eyes.

“Yes, _please_. Can you—dad do you still have my—?”

The dad pulls a small, relatively battered, Aces hat from the backpack on his shoulder.

The kid grabs it and shoves it across the table toward Parson. “I already got Mashkov to sign it. See? So you can sign next to him.”

He points to a spiky, faded, signature and Parson obligingly signs his name beside it with a sharpie he apparently produced from thin air.

_Is that a thing?_ Eli wonders. _Do celebrities just carry around Sharpies in their pockets?_ He feels like that would definitely be a laundry hazard. Then again, Kent Parson can probably afford to buy a new pair of jeans every few weeks.

The father thanks them, the boy immediately puts the hat on his head, and the waitress returns with two massive salads, loaded with chicken and avocado, as the pair return to the sidewalk outside.

Kent shoves a forkful into his mouth immediately, making noises that are frankly a little risqué.

“So,” he says, mouth full and not at all endearing, “back to the whole making friends thing. I’ve heard there’s a really great way to do that.”

“Oh? Please. Share your wisdom.”

“Hockey,” he says solemnly.

“I’m not joining a hockey team, you weirdo.”

“No! I mean—hockey games. I could get you some tickets. And you could like, invite some people on your floor in the dorm. Or, maybe those girls you were with this morning? They seemed cool.”

“Oh.” That’s actually really nice, but. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

Kent’s face falls. “Too loud for Hawke?”

“No, she has ear muffs, but—“

“Ear muffs?”

“Like, hearing protection? For fireworks. And shooting and stuff.”

“Shooting. Like gun shooting? You have a gun?”

“I’m from Georgia. Everyone in my family owns a gun. My grandmother owns a gun.”

“Oh my god.”

Parson doesn’t look like he knows what to do with this information but he seems very, very, happy about it.

“I feel like we’ve gotten a little off track here,” he says finally, smile threatening to overtake his face.

One of his incisors is a little crooked, overlapping the tooth next to it, and for some reason Eli finds this distractingly cute.

“Right,” Eli says, trying to refocus. “I was just saying, I think Hawke would probably be okay, but I don’t—I’m not really a fan of crowds. Or places where I don’t have an easy exit.”

“Oh. Well, I could put you in a private box. You’d be further from the ice but no crowds and a door right to the hallway. Would that work?”

Eli watches as Parson shoves another too-big bite of food in his mouth.

“You’re offering me and a bunch of hypothetical friends seats in a private box to—try and help me build a social life?”

“Yes?”

“I think you’re taking the philanthropy aspect of this outing a little too far.”

“I’m not—“

“Hi!” a woman interrupts, waving long, manicured fingers at them. “Can I take a picture of your dog? He looks _just_ like our old dog Charlie. He passed away a few months ago—bone cancer—and my husband still isn’t over it. Five thousand dollars in vet bills but it gave us an extra year with him—worth it, you know? He was such a good dog and we have a soft spot for German Shepherds, now. They’re just the best. We’re on a waiting list for another puppy now.”

Parson gives Eli a bewildered look.

Eli resists the urge to laugh.

“Yeah, German Shepherds are the best. You can take a picture, sure. But don’t distract her, please, she’s working.”

The woman makes an “ok” sign, winking, and drops down onto her knees to get a better angle with her phone. Eli focuses on his salad and not the fact that he now has a perfect view down the front of the woman’s very low-cut shirt. When he glances at Parson, he’s surprised to find that Kent is doing the same. When Parson meets his eyes Eli nods meaningfully toward the woman, and holds up two fingers. He points to Parson, mimes an autograph, and folds down one finger. 2-1. Eli is winning.

Kent subtly flips him off.

When conversation resumes, they focus mostly on lighter topics: Vegas, the new Aces facilities, cats—particularly Kit—and their surprising mutual affection for Halsey.

_Have you met her?!_ Eli asks. _No,_ Parson says, bereft. _I’ve @-ed her so many times but she’s never tweeted me back._

The salad is, Eli has to admit, pretty damn good. And the frozen yogurt place they go to next is even better. It’s tiny, tucked between neon-signed shops a few miles from the strip. Self-serve. A buffet-bar of toppings. Colorful. Clean. Two booths and four small, circular tables. It’s entirely empty when they arrive.

“After school rush won't hit for another hour,” Parson says as they sit down with their selections—Cake Batter with banana slices and hazelnuts for Kent, Vanilla topped with strawberries for Eli.

“We’ll have to make sure to leave by two if we don’t want to get mobbed,” Parson continues. “It already turns into a madhouse around then, but add in a professional NHL player and a dog—“

He doesn’t have to finish. Eli nods.

“That’s cool. I need to be back on campus for a meeting with my RA by three anyway. I’ve got to give him the downlow on me and Hawke for emergencies and stuff.”

Parson gestures with his spoon toward Hawke. “So am I allowed to ask about what you use her for or is that not PC?”

Eli purses his lips and tries to be flippant.“My medical history is more of a 3 rd date conversation.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Because. No one sticks around after that conversation and I like to live in glorious denial for a short period beforehand.”

It comes out more self deprecating than he intended.

Parson looks…thoughtful. “Does this count as one or two?

“Pardon?”

“This. Frozen yogurt. I mean, technically it’s a second location, but still the same day. So is this one date or two.”

“One,” Eli says firmly. “If it’s happening within the same four-hour period.”

“You’re the expert,” Kent says, which, he’s really, really, not, but ok.

“So still two dates to go then?” Parson continues.

“I—what?”

“We’ve got a roadie coming up but then we’re home for almost two weeks, and it's preseason, so. When does your semester start?”

“You want to do this again?” Eli asks.

Kent stops idly twirling his spoon.

“You don’t?”

He does, Eli realizes. He really does. Because apparently he actually _likes_ Kent fucking Parson.

“I do,” he says. “I just figured—pity dates are usually pretty singular.”

“Oh—well, that’s not—It wasn’t really a pity date. I just thought you were interesting. Still do.”

He says it so completely without artifice that Eli is briefly winded.

“Oh,” he says. “Cool. I mean. Yeah. My semester doesn’t start for another week and a half, so whenever you’ve got time.”

“When are your practices?”

“Every morning from eight to ten this week. After that, seven to nine Monday, Wednesday, Friday.”

“Ours change depending, but that should be easy enough to work with. Here—“

Parson unlocks his phone and slides it across the table.

“Give me your number and we’ll figure it out once I get back.”

Eli stares dumbly at the phone for a moment.

He puts his name and number in on autopilot.

A few seconds after handing it back to Parson, his own phone vibrates with a text message. It’s a thumbs up emoji followed by two cats, fireworks and an eggplant. Because Kent Parson is a ridiculous human being. And he now has Kent Parson’s phone number. Apparently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends.
> 
> All of the interactions Eli has RE Hawke may or may not be based upon encounters Deacon and I have had, if anyone is wondering.
> 
> I'm officially on vacation for the next week and a half so hopefully I can get a lot of writing done and have a solid buffer before we leave for our month-long hiking adventure. If you want to keep track of our summer shenanigans, and be generally confused by a confluence of fandoms, feminism, and Real Life Hockey shit, you can find me on Tumblr where I am also Xiaq.
> 
> See you next week!


	3. Chapter 3

Eli met Eric Richard Bittle Junior the week after he turned nine. Eli had been accepted into a figure skating team based out of Atlanta and he really, _really_ , wanted to join, but the twice-a-week forty-minute drive from Greensboro to his current rink in Athens was already difficult for his parents to manage. Atlanta was over an hour away and practices were three times a week.

Eric Bittle was the solution to this problem.

Well, not Eric in particular, but the fact that Eric was already on the team and lived in Madison and once the coach contacted Eric’s mother, she was more than willing to drive Eli too.

Eric was also nine, but he was, Eli thought, the tiniest nine-year-old he had ever seen. Eli was small for his age, but the top of Eric’s head barely cleared Eli’s shoulder. Eric was adorable, too. The kind of blonde-haired big-eyed kid that modeled for Gap and grinned toothily while holding a fish in _Visit Georgia_ infomercials. He was about as stereotypically southern as apple pie and the big Ford truck his mama drove and Eli kind of wanted to hate him on principal except he couldn’t because Eric was smart and funny and stupidly, ridiculously, kind. They became best friends immediately, due primarily to the fact that they spent a large percentage of their time outside of school together by necessity, but secondarily because neither of them, frankly, had any other close friends.

Eric was the first person he came out to, twelve years old and curled up in the attic bedroom at Eric’s house; night two of a weekend sleepover, wide awake from too much sugar and a scary movie they weren’t supposed to watch.

“I think I have a crush on Colin Murphy,” he’d whispered, apropos of nothing. “I can’t stop thinking about kissing him but I’m pretty sure if I tried he’d punch me in the face.”

“If he did I’d punch him right back,” Eric said, like Colin didn’t weigh two of him and would have to duck if Eric wanted to get anywhere near his face.

“He has a weird looking nose, though,” Eric continues. “You could do better.”

“I like his nose.”

“Well. There’s no accounting for taste, I guess.”

Things had devolved into a hushed, and then not so hushed, pillow fight and it wasn’t until several minutes later, after Eric’s mother had yelled at them to quiet down, that Eli asked, low and a little breathless, “Eric. We’re—you’re not mad, right?”

“What? No.”

It was hard to read his facial expression in the darkness, but Eli’s skin flushed with nervous energy at how quiet Eric was being.

“You can’t tell anyone though, ok? Not yet.”

“Ok.”

A sour knot of anxiety settled in his stomach as the silence stretched between them. Because he’d been so sure that Eric would be kind. He would be kind and he would burry him in a barrage of comforting, encouraging words and while Eric hadn’t responded _badly_ he was also acting very strange and—

“Are you going to tell your parents?” Eric asked, twenty minutes later when Eli had nearly worked himself up to the point of tears.

“Eventually? Maybe in a couple years. I don’t know.”

“You think they’ll be mad?”

Eli took a breath, tried to steady his voice. “Not real bad, I don’t think. My cousin brought her girlfriend to Christmas and everyone was nice. Awkward. But nice. Dad liked her, actually. She plays soccer for her University and they like, bonded over how much American football sucks or whatever.”

“That is nice,” Eric said quietly, still so out of character that Eli didn’t know what to do.

“I don’t think my family would be ok with it,” Eric said, a full minute later, barely loud enough for Eli to hear and Eli closed his eyes, swallowing hard.

“I’m not—I won’t tell them, ok? Just keep it a secret and everything will be fine. Unless. If you don’t want to be friends anymore—“

He couldn’t finish the sentence and Eric suddenly had his arms wrapped around Eli’s neck. He didn’t realize he was crying until Eric used the cuff of his pajama shirt to wipe at Eli’s face, hushing him with the same warm, gentle words Eli had heard Eric’s mother use a dozen times after bad dreams and cruel kids and hard falls on the ice.

“No, no, no” Eric whispered, a little frantically. “No, I didn’t mean you, I meant _me_. I meant my family—I don’t think. Well Mama might but—I don’t think I can ever tell them about _me_.”

“ _You_?”

“Me.”

“Oh.”

And then they were both crying and it was all very dramatic and embarrassing in a way that only twelve-year-olds could be.

When Eli came out publicly two years later his mother had a long talk with Eric’s mom and while she was a little quiet with him for a few weeks, she never refused to drive him to the rink or let him spend the night and things returned to normal within a few months. No one told Eric’s dad—the coach of the high school football team, the very team that made Eric’s life hell—and Eric stayed in the closet. Or the kitchen, more literally. If he wasn’t skating, he was baking. And since neither of them understood the concept of hobbies for enjoyment rather than competition, Eli started cooking; first his Mama’s and Abuela’s recipes, then recipes from books and internet searches. The paltry amount of free time he and Eric spent playing video games quickly transformed into arguments over the cooking channel. This didn’t help their already lacking social standing at their respective schools, but they were happy enough and Eric’s mother was all too willing to encourage them.

Freshman year of high school, Eric quit figure skating.

He never admitted if it was because of his dad or the bullying at school but Eli was pretty sure it was a combination of both. He loved the ice, though, and within a week he joined a hockey team at the same Atlanta rink. Their practices were, conveniently, within a half hour of each other, so Eli still rode with the Bittles to Atlanta three times a week and, despite his general hatred of hockey players, Eli grudgingly watched the end of Eric’s practices and attended his games and yes, cheered VERY loudly when he made opposing players look like lumbering idiots. Because Eric was small, and stayed small, but he was _fast_ , faster than anyone else on the ice, and he had soft hands and even better reflexes and people, important people, quickly took notice. By senior year of high school, Eric was captain and NCAAteams were scouting him. None of the teams offering Eric scholarships had offered Eli one, though, so Eli committed to the Las Vegas University figure team while Eric packed his bags (and his smelly hockey pads—honestly Eli would _not_ miss riding in the car with those) for Samwell in Massachusetts.

Their last night together in the attic was nearly as emotionally fraught as the night when Eli came out. It culminated in a badly thought-out and equally badly executed kiss that ended, at least, in laughter rather than tears.

“Never again,” Eric said somberly.

“God no,” Eli agreed. “Don’t get me wrong, I love you and I definitely have a thing for blondes. But you’re like— I prefer guys who are taller than me. No offense.

“Yeah,” Eric agreed, somewhat wistfully. “You’re way too skinny. I like big guys.”

“ _Big_ , huh?” Eli said, lecherous.

Eric went abruptly pink, muttered something about _muscles, you ingrate_ , and well, that was that.

It’s been a full 48 hours since he’s last seen Eric and Eli is secure enough to admit that he is going through withdrawals. He can’t remember a time that they had gone more than a day without seeing each other and now there are two thousand miles between them and they’re starting college on opposite sides of the United States.

He’s unpacking, having taken his dinner from the dining hall to-go (he wasn’t ready to broach the particular social minefield that was sitting down to eat) when Eric finally Face-times him.

The time difference is three hours, so it must be nearly 10pm at Samwell.

“Hey sweetheart,” Eric says, clearly tired but beaming at him like the veritable ray of sunshine that he is. “Are you in your dorm? How was your first day of practice?!”

Hawke’s ears perk up at the sound of his voice.

“Yeah, I’m still unpacking. My day was completely ridiculous. You have no idea. But tell me about yours first, did you meet your—” he grimaces, intentionally dramatic “ _teammates_.”

Eric laughs.

“Yes. They seem like nice boys. Disgusting. But nice.”

Eli carries his laptop from his desk to the still-unmade bed, laying out on his stomach. He nearly falls off the bed reaching for his takeout box of food.

“Any of them hot?” he asks, opening his plastic packet of cutlery.

Eric groans. “Only all of them. It’s terrible.”

“You poor thing. What a trial.”

“Listen. Hockey asses are a thing and they are glorious. Except when you have to share a testosterone-saturated locker room with them.”

Eli snorts at Eric’s expression.

“Are there any out guys on the team?”

Eric purses his lips. “I don’t think so? I can’t figure out if Ransom and Holster are together or just…really close bros. And Shitty—well. He dresses like my cousin Archie—“

“Way too much denim and American flag paraphernalia?”

“That’s the one—but he also gave the frogs a lecture on intersectional feminism at dinner, and I’m pretty sure he kissed our captain on the mouth after practice, but I’m definitely sure the captain isn't gay—“ He shrugs. “Time will tell, I guess.”

“Well. Are you still planning to come out? That’s why you chose Samwell, right? The whole, ‘one in four, maybe more’?”

“Right. I just. I think I may wait a few weeks. To make sure.”

Eli has to admit this is probably wise.

“More important question,” he says seriously. “Ransom, Holster, and Shitty? What the hell is with hockey players and their nicknames? Please tell me they haven’t given you one. Or at least tell me it’s better than your old one, _Dicky_.”

Eric presses his palms to eyes, but it looks like he’s smiling.

“They’re calling me ‘Bitty.’ Because ‘Bittle’ but also—“

“Oh my god, that’s actually perfect. This makes me so happy, you have no idea.”

“Enough, _Elijah_. Why was your day ridiculous?”

“Well. After practice this morning I went to watch the end of the Aces practice.”

Eric presses a shocked hand to his chest. “ _You_? Voluntarily spending time in the same rink as _NHL players_?” He shakes his head.“Twenty-four hours away from home and college has already changed you.”

Eli rolls his eyes. “Anyway. I met Jeff Troy which was—“

“OH MY GOD. Shut up. Is he as beautiful close up as we always thought?”

“Better. But listen. I went out for lunch with Kent Parson.”

Eric just stares at him, so motionless that Eli thinks, for a moment, the video connection has frozen.

“What the actual fuck, Eli.”

“Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction too.”

“I don’t—I’m going to need you to start from the beginning.”

Eli does.

“So,” Eric says, twenty minutes and a not insignificant amount of yelling later, “you’re telling me that Kent Parson bought you lunch, then dessert, offered you an entire private box worth of NHL tickets to help you make friends, and you now have his phone number and plans to meet again once he’s back in town?”

Eric’s voice goes progressively thinner and higher the further he gets into the sentence.

“Uh. Yeah, that about covers it.”

“Only you, Eli. Do you think he’s gay?”

Eli coughs on a bite of chicken.

“ _No_. He’s the straitest strait dude to ever straight. And, you know, a professional hockey player. There’s no way he’s actually interested in me.”

“I’m sorry, do you need me to list all of things that happened again today, or—“

Eli groans, flopping sideways and out of frame. “I think he’s just lonely? He seemed—he actually seemed kind of unhappy and like maybe he didn’t have many friends. Everyone on his team is older than him and—I don’t know. I think he liked just being able to hang out with someone who didn’t have any expectations, you know? And who wasn’t like, infatuated with him.”

Eric sighs, sobering. “I guess that would be tough. Being a captain so young. He’s only—what—two years older than us?

“Yeah. He just turned twenty. His birthday is the fourth of July.”

Eric quirks one eyebrow.

“You googled him when you got home, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely.”

“Enough. Tell me about your team. And all their sordid nick-names.”

“Well,” Eric yawns, leaning back against his pillows. “They seem like nice boys. They’re just all so…big.”

“They can’t be much bigger than the guys on your old team. And you’re not tiny like you used to be. I mean, you’re practically normal-sized now.”

“You hush your mouth, Mr. Five-Foot-seven-and-a-half-Inches. Lord what I wouldn’t do to be your height.

“I’m only an inch taller than you,” Eli laughs.

Eric rests his chin in the cup of one palm.“And do you know what I would give for that inch?” He says.

“Your left nut?”

“No. Maybe my right one, though. It's not as pretty.”

Eli shakes his head, still laughing, and Eric launches into a detailed breakdown of all the people he’d met that day, lingering for a while on the cheekbones of Justin “Ransom” Oluransi and the blue eyes of one Jack Zimmerman, who apparently is the only one without a nickname.

“I’m pretty sure he hates me,” Eric says. “Or maybe he just hates everyone. But all that glaring of his is offset a bit by how gorgeous he looks while angry.”

Eric goes all pensive for a moment and Eli rests his cheek on his pillow, tipping the laptop screen so he stays in frame.

“Are you going to swoon? Should I leave you alone for a minute?”

“Says the boy who counted Kent Parson’s freckles today.”

“Oh my god, I didn’t _count his freckles_. I just said I noticed them.”

“Uh huh.”

Eric yawns again and Eli glances at the clock, keeping in mind the time difference.

“It’s getting late. You free tomorrow night? Maybe a little earlier?”

“Yeah. I made a new vlog today, and the only thing I have planned for tomorrow is practice and to buy a damn muffin tin for the kitchen downstairs— _what kind of kitchen doesn’t have muffin tin? Honestly_ —but maybe we could talk around six?”

“Sounds good. New vlog already?”

They had a joint channel, where Eric made videos about baking and Eli made videos about cooking—it had a not-insignificant twelve-thousand followers and they were perhaps a little overly proud of their minor online fame.

“Oh hush,” Eric says, “like you aren’t planning to make one as soon as you hang up with me.”

“True.”

They grin at each other and Eli suddenly feels every mile between them.

“Say hello to Señor Bun for me,” he says, because he wants to say something embarrassing like “I miss you” or “I’m a little bit terrified” and emotions have always been Eric’s forte, not his.

Eric rolls his eyes,shifting to one side to reach behind his pillow. He returns to the screen with a frankly bedraggled but well-loved stuffed rabbit in his hands. He makes Señor Bun wave at Eli, fond, but sly.

“Have you unpacked Señor Fox yet?”

Eli is glad his skin isn’t pale enough to flush because he can feel his face go hot.

The stuffed fox, purchased at the same place as Eric’s rabbit, was one of the first things he had unpacked and is currently sitting on top of the refrigerator next to his phone charger and a jar of peanut butter.

Señor Bun and Señor Fox had been procured when Eli and Eric were ten years old and wandering around the farmer’s market a few miles from Eric’s house. Eric’s mom sold homemade jams, jellies, and preserves (Eli made the mistake once of asking if there was a difference) on Saturdays and she’d pay them each five dollars to help set up and take down the stand. This left them with around four hours to kill, less if she had a good selling day, to wander the stalls and decide how they would spend their five dollars. Eric was in the habit of spending his immediately. Eli preferred to save his.

On that particular day, Eric had noticed a stall full of beautiful hand-stitched stuffed animals and promptly fell madly in love with a rabbit.

Eli admitted it was nice, and spent several minutes admiring a fox himself, but his cousin, a year older than him and popular in a way he would never be, had scornfully declared that stuffed animals were for babies earlier that week.

He told Eric this, putting the fox back on the shelf.

Eric didn’t care.

Eric asked the owner of the stall to hold the rabbit for him until he could save the $25 required to bring it home and she agreed, largely because Eric knew exactly how adorable he was and used it ruthlessly to his advantage.

Eric wouldn’t shut up about the rabbit for the following week and Eli, more out of frustration than affection had bought the stupid thing for him the next Saturday. Eric had cried, which wasn’t all that unusual, Eli had awkwardly hugged him, and then, when Eric demanded Eli name the rabbit, he’d dubbed him “Señor Bun.”

He never claimed he was good at naming things.

Eli noticed in the following weeks that Eric still wasn’t spending his money but he wasn’t expecting Eric to present him, a month later, with the fox from the same vendor. The fox’s name, of course, was obvious, and Eli has unrepentantly slept with Señor Fox ever since. When his cousin made fun of him for it, he punched his cousin in the nose and his mom didn’t even ground him for it.

There had been no question that the fox was coming with him to college but he is embarrassingly relived that Eric brought Señor Bun with him as well.

Eric yawns for a third time as Eli leans over to collect the fox from the refrigerator. He doesn’t make him wave because he’s not quite that ridiculous, but Eric beams at him when he sees the stuffed animal in his arms.

“I miss you,” Eric sighs. “It’s weird, being this far from home and mama and you. Christmas seems ages from now.”

“Yeah,” he agrees softly.

Hawke, perhaps sensing his distress, climbs onto the bed and bullies her way between him and the wall, shoving her nose into his neck.

Eric coos at her and Eli works one hand into the fur of her ruff, glad for the distraction.

“You should go to bed,” he says. “I’ll call you tomorrow though, okay?”

“Okay. Give Hawke a kiss for me.”

“Will do.”

“Goodnight, Elijah.”

“Goodnight, Eric.”

He closes his laptop, gently redirecting Hawke’s nose which is poking hopefully at his takeout box.

He hugs her for a moment, which she submits to with grace, and then reaches for his phone.

There’s several message notifications—one from his mom, just checking in, and then nearly a dozen…from Kent Parson.

_Hey I’m at dinner with Swoops,_ the first one says and then, in quick succession:

_hes got private ice time at the igloo after free skate tonite 9-10._

_mite bring his fig skates if u wanna join._

_I’ll b there too_

_this is Kent by the way_

_Parson_

_I can pick u up?_

_unless ur busy_

_just let me know_

_sorry for all the messages_

“What the fuck,” he whispers to Hawke.

He doesn’t know how to respond.

_YES_ seems a little too exuberant.

Backspace

_Dude, yes_

Backspace

_I might have time, let me check_

Backspace

He settles on, _Bro, seriously? That would be awesome!_

Kent responds with a thumbs-up emoji less than a minute later.

The typing ellipsis pops up, disappears, pops up again and then:

_Text me your address, I’ll pick you up at 8:30._

_Swoops says bring your skates._

Eli rolls onto his back and stares at the splotchy particle-board ceiling, phone against his chest.

“What the fuck,” he whispers again, a little more fervent.

Then he screencaps the entire conversation and sends it to Eric before lunging to his feet because he still hasn’t unpacked the majority of his clothes and he has less than two hours to figure out _what the hell he’s going to wear._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's log:
> 
> Happily, I've gotten a lot of writing done the past few days and I do have a bit of a buffer, so I will still be able to post next week and the week after while I am off adventuring, provided I can find some wifi. I leave for Vegas on Tuesday, then head to Zion National Park for a week, Vegas again for a few days, then Denver for a few more days. If anyone lives in any of those places let me know! Deacon and I are all about meeting shady internet people in real life. This causes my mother vexation, but we've yet to meet any axe murders (or have we??). Anyway, see you next week!


	4. Chapter 4

Jeff Troy doesn’t usually feel particularly old. Twenty-four is still young for a hockey player, and he’s only had one significant injury so far in his career. He knows guys in their thirties who take muscle relaxers like candy and have to do a series of convoluted stretches in order to hobble out of bed in the mornings; who visit the PT floor every day after practice and complain about their joints when it rains. Jeff can still stay up until 3 am, drink too much Vodka with the Russians, and recover in time for 11am practice.

He’s not old, okay?

But he’s also been with the Las Vegas Aces for less than a year and already a good portion of the Aces, even those older than him, have started calling him “Mom.” Because apparently monitoring his budget, caring about personal hygiene, and checking the goddamn weather before he leaves the house makes him geriatric.

There’s also Kent Parson.

Jeff doesn’t have any kids. He only just got married and that was terrifying enough, he doesn’t plan to procreate any time in the near future. But since the day nineteen-year-old NHL Captain Kent Parson called him on the phone to welcome him to the Aces, more soft-spoken and awkward than he ever expected, Jeff has had a deep and abiding affection for the kid. The kind that makes him want to fight people twice his size who so much as look at Kenny funny. The kind that has resulted in Kent falling asleep on him everywhere from the team bus to airline seats to his own couch where his wife stifles laughter over his internal struggle over whether or not it would be weird to pet Kenny’s hair. Which, it’s nice hair, ok? And the poor kid has a half-dozen cowlicks that make him look like a startled sunflower most of the time. It’s adorable.

Jeff had a very brief sexuality crisis shortly after these feelings started to manifest before he realized he didn’t want to have sex with Kenny, he just wanted to _protect_ him. Which does not, in fact, make any sense. Regardless, Jeff loves Kent in a way that he anticipates he’ll love his own children someday and the fact that Kent is only four years younger than him and his Captain doesn’t really negate that.

So no, Jeff doesn’t usually feel old, but when he’s sitting at the monstrosity of an island in Kent’s ridiculous ultra-modern penthouse apartment, drinking beer he brought with him and refuses to share— _there are laws for a reason, Kenny, no—_ while Kent quietly freaks out about whether or not he’s texted a cute boy too many times, Jeff feels suddenly ancient.

“Should I apologize for all the messages or does that make it worse because it’s another message?” Kent murmurs, thumbing distractedly at his phone.

“I don’t think—“

“Oh god. What if he’s an English major and he hates chat-speak? Why didn’t I ask what his major was? That’s like. Such an obvious question. He’s probably an English major. I should have typed everything out and used like, commas and shit.”

“Kenny—“

“He’s probably just getting dinner, right? And maybe left his phone in his dorm?”

“It’s been less than ten minutes,” Jeff says slowly, debating a brief abeyance of the no-alcohol rules because honestly the kid could probably use a drink. “Don’t start worrying until it’s been like…an hour.”

“Right. You’re right. I’m being stupid.”

Kent paces over to the couch where Kit is watching him with slitted eyes.

Kit and Jeff have an uneasy truce, which is better than most of the Aces can say. She doesn’t appear to like people other than Kent but with Jeff, at least, she doesn’t actively try to claw the shit out of his shins. Coots is not so lucky.

“You said lunch went well,” Jeff reminds him. “And he gave you his phone number. He wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t like you.”

“I guess. But. Maybe he felt pressured? It sounds like he hasn’t had the best experience with hockey players in the past and he already thinks I’m a giant ableist douche bag, which, to be fair, I kind of am? I just. Didn’t realize it until now.”

“Ableist?”

Kent gestures vaguely toward his laptop. “I watched some youtube videos when I got home.”

Jeff doesn’t miss this at all. Thank god for his wife.

“There are plenty of guys out there,” Jeff says awkwardly. “Even if you never see him again it’s not like it’s the end of the world.”

“That’s not—“

Kent sighs, finishing his circuit of the couch and returning to the kitchen island.

“I don’t want to date him. I mean. I would, if he wasn’t so young. And I wasn’t a fucking closeted neurotic NHL player. But I don’t—I’ve never had any gay friends.Well, except—but that wasn’t really—”

He lets his head thunk down onto the granite counter and Jeff gives up and shoves a beer over toward him because, honestly, he is so out of his depth here.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Kent says, “You’re great. And it’s a huge relief to have someone on the team who knows. But I can’t talk to you about, you know,” he raises his eyebrows, “stuff. That I could with someone else who was into dudes. Or, at least, I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t want me to.”

“Oh god. No. You’re right. I understand. Please don’t talk to me about ‘stuff.’”

Kent smirks a little. “Besides that, I just—I really like him. He’s funny and sarcastic as hell. And he isn’t a fan but it doesn’t seem like hates me either which—“

Ken nearly drops his phone when it vibrates.

“Well?” Jeff asks because, dammit, he’s invested now.

“He said yes! I should offer to pick him up, right?” Kent types something, then mutters about punctuation and backspaces, starting again.

“Yeah, there we go,” he says a moment later, finally palming the beer Jeff had proffered to him, taking a long drink.

“Jesus. No wonder I don’t have any friends. This is stressful.”

Jeff considers being affronted by that.

“Tell him to bring his skates,” he says instead.

Kent frowns at him. “Why wouldn’t he? We’re going to the rink.”

“We’re professional hockey players and it’s my private rink time. From what you’ve told me, he probably thinks the invitation is just to watch.”

“Oh. Right.”

Kent sends another message and returns to the beer. “I’m kind of bad at this,” he says, “Huh?”

“Little bit,” Jeff agrees.

***

Jeff Troy met Kent Parson for the first time on the ice as an opponent. The Aces won 3-2 in overtime despite a dozen penalties and Kent nearly took out Jeff’s goalie making the game-winning shot. The second, third, fourth, and fifth time Jeff shared ice with Kent weren’t much better.

And then Jeff was traded.

Jeff knew about as much as any other player in the league about Kent Parson: painfully young, cocky, first in the draft, soft hands, fast as hell, and the embodiment of _dirty hockey._ He’d also seen enough of Kent’s off-ice behavior splashed across tabloids to know that the kid desperately needed his tweeting privileges revoked and a babysitter when he hit the clubs. But he was a super star; his talent only upstaged by his ridiculous all-american-boy face and six pack abs. He was given the A as a rookie, the C the following year, and Jeff noted these things with passing interest until it was February and Jeff’s GM was on the phone, reeling off the canned trade script about how thankful the organization was for his years with the team and that they wished him all the best in Las Vegas. _Vegas_. A less than ten-year-old franchise with no cups, a reputation for dirty play, and a teenage captain.

So it was with no little amount of resentment that he answered a Vegas area code number on his phone only a few hours after he’d spoken to his own GM, knowing it was probably someone from his new home team.

“Uh. Hi,” the other voice said, “Is this Jeff? Troy.”

“Yeah, this is Jeff.”

“Right. Cool. This is Kent Parson with the Las Vegas Aces?” the way he phrased it made it sound like he wasn’t sure.

“I just wanted to call and welcome you to the team. We’re really excited to have you and think you’re going to be a great fit for our organization.”

That bit wasn’t as unsure, but it sounded like he was reading from a script.

“Oh. Yeah, thanks, man.” He tried to remember his media training. “I’m excited for the opportunity.”

Things went awkwardly silent then and Jeff was reminded, somewhat fondly, of phone conversations with his five-year-old niece.

He decided to throw the kid a bone, because he was nice like that.

“God knows you need a winger who can tell his right from left, what even _was_ that in the game against Tampa last week?”

Kent groaned. “Leave Bolly alone. It was his first game after being called up from the AHL and he was so nervous it’s a miracle he didn’t pass out on the ice. The kid is doing his best.”

Jeff resisted pointing out that Kent was, in fact, two years younger than ‘the kid’ in question.

“Yeah, I feel you. It’s too bad about Tervais’ knee. And Rush’s ankle. And Mashkov’s shoulder. You’ve had a lot of injuries to contend with this year.”

“Yeah.”

Kent went quiet for a moment and Jeff realized maybe he shouldn’t have brought that up.

“Mark isn’t coming back,” Kent said, kind of in a rush, and Jeff leaned his head back on the couch, closing his eyes against the emotion in Kent’s voice. “They don’t even know if—I mean. It sounds like he’ll walk again, but.”

“That sucks, man.”

And it did. No one liked to see a veteran go out with an injury like that.

“He’s great.” Kent continued. “I’m sorry you won't get to play with him.”

“I did, actually. Team USA three years back?”

Kent would have been sixteen then, Jeff realized. Jesus.

“I wasn’t expecting to get picked,” Jeff continued. “I’d just turned twenty and I was more terrified than excited. They put us in the same room and I just kinda latched onto him. He let me follow him around like a baby duckling the whole time and never gave me shit for it. I’ll have to give him a call later. Good guy.”

“Oh. Yeah. He’s—I guess he’s kinda done the same thing for me. Helping me withCaptain stuff. I didn’t—“

There was a pause. Long enough that Jeff thought the connection might have been lost.

“I didn’t want to be Captain when they offered,” Kent said finally. “He convinced me to accept.”

Jeff had no idea how to respond to that.

“Sorry,” Kent muttered. “You don’t need to hear this. See? This is why I need help. I’m so bad at this stuff.”

“Easy,” Jeff said. “You’re doing fine. And it’s not like he’s going to abandon you. Knowing Mark he’ll probably be calling you every night to go over plays and scold you about line changes.”

“True,” Kent said, sounding a little brighter. “I just really hoped—I thought he might have another year or two. I wanted to win a cup for him. With him. He put so much into the organization, turning the team into a real contender over the past few years, you know? He deserved a cup.”

“You really think the Aces can get the cup in another year or two?” Jeff asked, admittedly a little disbelieving. “Honestly?”

“Yeah,” Kent said, still quiet but confident for the first time in the entire phone conversation. “Yeah, I think we can.”

And damn it if Jeff wasn’t suddenly, intensely, invested in making that happen.

Kent picked Jeff up at the Las Vegas airport a week later. He’d offered Jeff the use of his guest room until he could find a place and ship his stuff from Dallas and Jeff had accepted because he spent enough of his life in hotel rooms already and this way he could get a better feel for his new captain. The phone call had been enough to disrupt the preconceived notion he’d held of who, exactly, Kent Parson was, but there were still enough news stories and screen-capped, now-deleted, tweets floating around the internet to leave him wary.

Kent picked him up at the airport looking like a college student that got separated from his fraternity on spring break. He was wearing Bermuda shorts, Sperries, and a backwards snap-back, holding an iced Starbucks drink.

“Hey!” he said brightly upon recognizing Jeff, not realizing until a moment too late that the hand he extended to shake was already occupied by his drink. He awkwardly fumbled the cup into his left hand, wiping his right palm on his shorts to get rid of condensation, before offering it again, somewhat sheepishly, to Jeff. “Welcome to Vegas.”

Jeff tried really hard not to laugh at him and accepted the handshake.

“Thanks. I slept through the landing so I’ll need to go check which baggage claim is mine.”

“It’s 14C. One floor down. I looked it up online before I came.”

Kent nodded vaguely toward the escalators and Jeff followed him, somewhat bemused. His puzzlement continued as Kent helped him load his four checked bags into the back of Kent’s shiny new Land Rover, then drove them back to Kent’s place with random and highly unorthodox tour-guide commentary that seemed to focus mostly on places to eat. Which, Kent was still a teenager, so he supposed that was allowed.

Kent’s guest bedroom was spare but clean and comfortable: shades of grey with it’s own bathroom. Kent left him to his own devices until late afternoon and then, fresh from a nap, Jeff argued amiably with him about dinner before they settled on Chinese, then walked the three blocks together to pick it up.

They were nearly back to Kent’s place, laughing over nothing, when two guys—probably college students on spring break—stopped on the sidewalk in front of them to take a selfie backgrounded by the ornate gold doors of Kent’s building. They waited, patient, as the boys took a few pictures from different angles, and then the taller one ducked a bit, pressing a slow kiss to the other man’s grinning mouth.

“Do you mind?” Kent snarled, completely out-of-character.

One of the men flinched.

The other jammed his phone into his pocket and squared up to Kent.

Jeff regretted all of his life choices.

“You got a problem?” the guy said.

“Yeah,” Kent said, voice ugly, “Maybe suck face in front of someone else’s building, you fucking faggot. I live here.”

And Jeff was done.

Conveniently, one of the residents was exiting the building and Jeff grabbed the back of Kent’s shirt, dragging him inside before the door closed again, yelling an apology behind him.

“What the fuck?” he hissed, shoving Kent away from him in front of the elevator.

“Dammit,” Kent muttered, rubbing the hand not holding their takeout bag over his face. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

They both noticed the girl in the lobby with her cellphone out, watching them closely, at the same time. Their eyes met and they went quiet, Kent biting his lip, Jeff digging his fingernails into his palms, as they boarded the elevator.

Once the door closed to Kent’s apartment, two eternally long minutes later, Kent threw his keys and the takeout onto the island, leaning against it with both hands, head bowed between hunched shoulders.

“I didn’t mean it,” he repeated, subdued. “I don’t say shit like that anymore.”

Jeff took a breath. “Look man. I’m not going to tell you how to live your life, but if you’re going to talk like that in the locker room, or on the ice, we’re going to have a problem.

“I _don’t_. I swear. I fucked up, okay?”

“It’s just—my little sister is trans, ok? And I work with a queer hockey camp during the summers back home. I know a lot of guys in the NHL don’t realize how detrimental—“

“I’m not homophobic,” Kent interrupted.

Jeff tried to remember some of the phrases from the most recent ally book his mom had sent him.

“You’re a figurehead, Kent. A lot of kids—a lot of players—look up to you. And ignorance is different from malice, but it’s still really problematic if—“

“ _I’m not homophobic_ ,” Kent said, louder, voice cracking. “I’m not. _I’m not.”_

And the look on his face was—

Oh.

_Oh._

_“_ Oh, kid.” Jeff said.

“I’m not a kid,” Kent whispered, probably automatically because it didn’t seem like he was fully computing what had just happened.

“You really, really are. Do you need to sit down? Come on, let’s go sit down on the couch.”

Kent sat down.

“So,” Jeff said. “Not homophobic. Just really shitting coping mechanisms?”

“You can’t tell anyone,” Kent said, barely audible. “Jeff, you can’t. Okay? Please.”

“Of course not. Hey, breathe. I wouldn’t. It’s ok. Look at me. I’ve read like a thousand books about this shit. I am 100% here for you ok?”

“Okay.” Kent didn’t sound like he believed him.

“Who knows?” Jeff asked gently.

“No one.”

“You mean no one on the team?

“No,” Kent said, and at least his voice was a little closer to normal. “I mean _no one_ , no one. Well my ex, I guess. And I think maybe his parents knew, at the end. But no one else.”

Jeff sat down too.

“Not even your parents?”

“I don’t—there’s only my mom. And no. She’s—no.”

“Jesus, Kenny.”

“You can’t tell anyone,” he repeated.

“I won’t. Hey, come here. Can I hug you?”

Kent looked at him like he was certifiably insane.

“I guess?”

“It’ll help. Probably. The books say it helps.”

“Well. If the books say it helps.”

Jeff snorted and pulled Kent into an admittedly awkward side hug.

“How long do the books say we need to do this?” Kent asked, rigid under his arm.

“Shut up. At least ten minutes,” he lied.

“ _Ten minutes_?”

“Yeah, so get comfortable.”

Kent did. Eventually. Slowly relaxing into Jeff’s side.

“Can we at least watch some television or something?” Kent asked. He was trying to sound put out and failing miserably.

“No. We’re going sit here for another,” Jeff glanced at his watch, “four minutes, and then we’re going to eat food and talk about our feelings. And how you should probably get a therapist because I’m shit at talking about feelings.”

“Fuck you.”

“I know, I’m looking forward to it too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a bit late. The wifi at our rental is VERY slow and I've been trying for the past two days now to get the stupid thing uploaded. See you next week!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeff's routine is based on this if you want to watch it for the full experience:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pFEZDeAh6Qk

Kent texts Eli at 8:25pm that he’s outside the dorm.

By 8:28pm, when Eli exits the lobby doors, there are three people getting autographs from a benevolent Kent who is wearing a slightly less bro-tastic outfit of black skinny jeans, a grey t-shirt, and an Aces snapback. Since Eli is wearing basically the same thing, but with leggings instead of jeans, he can’t really criticize him.

“Eli! Hey!” Kent says, nodding since his hands are full. He takes a final selfie with someone, then waves them off so he can open the back door for Hawke.

There’s a fleece blanket spread across the back seat, and a green water bottle with a collapsable bowl attached to it in the floorboard. They both look brand new.

Eli decides he’ll deal with the feelings that gives him later.

The small group of undergrads watch from a few feet away as Kent proceeds to open the passenger door for Eli before returning to the driver’s side.

“Sorry,” he says, sheepish as he puts the car in gear. “I should have known better than to get out, but I wanted to unfold the blanket in the back for Hawke.”

“No problem,” Eli answers. “Is that—did you get that for her?”

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s not a thing. “I dropped by the boutique where I buy Kit’s stuff on my way. The rink gets pretty cold at night when there’s nobody there, especially in the bleachers. And I know she’s probably fine since she’s got pretty thick fur but I figured we can bring it just in case, so she doesn’t have lay on the cold metal.” He shrugs, glancing in the rearview mirror as they pull out onto the boulevard.

“I think she likes it.”

He appears delighted by this.

Eli takes a moment to appreciate the sunset outside and not stare at Kent Parson’s stupid freckled face and slightly crooked smile.

“Hey,” Kent says urgently, “What’s your major?”

“Uh, I’m not 100% sure. I really like history but I think I want to do something with like, advertising or marketing? I don't know. I'm undeclared right now.”

“That's cool.”

They merge onto the highway and Eli realizes there’s a distinct lack of music in the car. He can’t decide if the silence is uncomfortable or not.

“So,” Kent says eventually. “How was your day? Or, your afternoon, I guess.”

“Good. Unpacked, FaceTimed with my best friend from back home.” And then, because he can’t help but brag on Eric a little: “He plays NCAA hockey, actually. Or he will once the semester starts. He just moved into his dorm and met his team today.”

Kent gives him a sideways glance. “I thought you said you avoided hockey players.”

“Eric doesn’t count. He did figure skating with me our whole lives. Switched to hockey in high school. He’s not—he doesn’t really act like your typical hockey player. He’s smaller than I am. Bakes pies. Cries at Humane Society commercials. Very non-threatening. He just also happens to have the best scoring percentage in the Atlanta junior hockey league.”

Kent whistles. “I like this kid already. Where does he go to school?”

“Oh, it’s a smaller university. Samwell? It’s in—“

“Massachusetts,” Kent says. “I know.”

Kent’s voice has lost its brightness, his flat expression matching the suddenly impassive tone.

“Oh,” Eli says, uncertain. “Most people have never heard of it.”

Kent is looking at him like…Eli doesn’t even know. Like Kent isn’t sure if Eli is messing with him or not.

He turns back to focus on the road, rubbing his chin with the hand not on the steering wheel.

“You really _don’t_ follow hockey, do you?” Kent says finally.

“No. No, I do not. What am I missing here?”

“My—Jack. Zimmerman.” Kent says the name like there’s a continent of feeling behind it. “He’s the captain of the team there.”

Eli tries to recall what Eric had said about Jack Zimmerman. _Angry_ , he remembers, _blue eyes_.

“Um. Okay?”

“Jesus,” Parson says.

Eli is actually starting to get a little annoyed. “I’m sorry but I really don’t—Wait. Hold on.”

He tries to think back to the articles he’d skimmed while googling Kent earlier that day. The name Zimmerman had been familiar when Eric said it but he hadn’t remembered until now—

“You played with him in juniors, right? Reporters liked to pair y'all up for interviews.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s he doing playing for a college team, then? Shouldn’t he be sitting on a stupidly huge NHL contract like you?“

Kent makes a noise in the back of his throat.

“How do you know we used to play together and not about—why he’s at Samwell?”

Eli doesn’t really have a way to answer that that isn’t embarrassing. He decides to go with honesty anyway.

“I googled you when I got home today. There were articles about you in midget and juniors. Zimmerman was in a couple of them.”

“You—“ Kent coughs, maybe it’s supposed to be a laugh, Eli isn’t sure. “You googled me?”

“Well, yeah. I mean. If you were a normal person I would have Facebook stalked you, if that makes you feel any better. I just. Wanted to know who you were.”

“Well. You won’t find that out from Google.”

“Right. Sorry. I didn’t—you’re right. That was a stupid thing to say.”

Kent sighs, shifting his hands on the wheel. “No, it’s ok. I probably would have done the same thing. It’s just—Jack was my best friend. For years. He was supposed to go first in the draft. I figured I’d be second or third. There was a lot of pressure on us but especially on Jack. Because of his dad.”

Eli knows he looks blank.

“Bad Bob Zimmerman?” Kent prompts. “Three-Time-Stanley Cup winner and two time olympic gold medalist? Hockey Legend?”

“Okay, yeah. I have actually heard of him. Guess I should have made that name connection.”

“Anyway. We were both really stressed before the draft. Jack—“

Kent swallows, starts again.

“He overdosed. Accidentally. Anxiety meds. The day before the draft. I went first because he wasn’t there.”

There’s so much going on there that Eli doesn’t even know how to begin to unpack it.

“It was a big deal,” Kent continues, voice still flat. “Lots of news coverage when the crown prince of Canadian hockey abdicates to a no-name American kid. He could have come back. Played overseas for a year and then—but he didn’t. Said he wasn’t ready. Decided to do the college thing once he got out of rehab.”

“Is he—“ Eli looks out the window because he doesn’t think he can handle Kent’s face right now. “Is he ok? The way Eric talked about him made it seem like he was—“ well, happy would be a lie but—“healthy?”

Kent’s mouth goes thin and pinched.

“I don’t know. We don’t really talk anymore.”

“Oh. That sucks.”

“Yeah. I get it, though. I wasn’t—he probably has a lot of bad associations with me. Because of the circumstances. Not my fault.”

“Sounds like you’re still trying to convince yourself of that."

“Yeah, well. My therapist thinks if I say it out loud enough maybe I’ll believe it or some shit."

“You have a therapist?”

Kent exhales sharply. Maybe a laugh.

“I’m a twenty year old NHL captain for an expansion team in a league that collectively hates us. Of course I have a therapist.”

“Makes sense. They can be useful, though. Therapists.”

“You have one?”

Eli opens his mouth. Then closes it again.

“Medical history. Third date.” he says somberly.

Kent laughs, which is what Eli was hoping for. “Right. Well, if you need a good one in town I can give you a referral. She’s Swoops’ too. He’s the one that dragged me to her. Literally.”

“I would have paid good money to see that.”

“Eh. I wouldn’t go by myself and I wasn’t handling things super well on my own. Things were. Hard. My first year.”

Eli remembers a picture of Kent’s eighteen-year-old face on draft day, serious below a headline declaring him the savior of Ace’s hockey. Bolded quotes about the franchise putting their faith in his skills and leadership capabilities. Quotes from anonymous sources about whether or not he was mature enough to meet the expectations the franchise had of him. He imagines, in addition to that, the feeling of being chosen first only because the best was taken out of the running. He imagines knowing that his best friend had nearly died due to the same stress and expectations now afforded to him.

‘Hard’ is probably the understatement of the century.

“Are _you_ —uh, okay? Now,” Eli asks.

“Oh. Yeah? For sure.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

Kent blows out a breath, looking a little embarrassed.

“So this is way more heavy than I anticipated. How did we even get on this topic?”

“Uh…” Eli realizes it was definitely his fault. “You asked how my day was? And I couldn’t help bragging about my best friend. And then my complete lack of hockey knowledge sort of—took things from there.”

“Right.”

They glance at each other, with the same expression: eyebrows raised, lips tucked between their teeth, and simultaneously start laughing.

“So,” Kent says, a little flushed. “This afternoon you Facetimed with your NCAA hockey-playing best friend who happens to be captained by my ex-best friend. Anything else?”

“Um. I checked out the cafeteria? Food wasn’t actually that bad. And as an athlete my meal plan is awesome. What did you do this afternoon?”

“Nothing really. Just a nap and then Swoops came over for dinner.”

“Where you told him I had a massive crush on his figure skating?”

“Nah, just told him you were willing to kill someone for the privilege of seeing him skate again. He’s very anti-murder, so.”

“Ah. How decent of him.”

They arrive at the complex after several more minutes of easy conversation and Eli pulls his handicapped hangtag from the front pocket of his backpack as they near the front of the building.

“You can park in the same spot you did this morning,” Eli says, because he’s a petty asshole. “You know, legally, this time.”

Kent’s ears goes red.

Eli hangs the tag from the review mirror with a grin.

“I really am sorry,” Kent says.

“I know. But don’t expect me to stop ragging you for it.”

“Fair.”

Kent takes off his hat, running his fingers through his stupidly endearing hair before replacing it.

“So. Are you ready for date number two?”

“Date number two?” Eli repeats. “This isn’t a date.”

Kent gives him a judgmental look.

“Bro. I’m taking you to an ice skating rink after-hours. I picked you up. I opened the car door for you. This is like. Shitty-Hallmark-movie levels of romantic. Of course it’s a date.”

“Okay, valid. It’s still within the same day as the first date, though. I don’t know if that counts as a separate date.”

“You said four hours was the cut-off. It’s been four hours since I dropped you back at your car. In fact, it’s been,” he consults his ridiculously gaudy watch. “seven and a half hours.”

“I did say that.” Eli admits.

“So. Date number two.”

“Date number two,” he agrees. “But I expect you to buy me a snack from the vending machine.”

Kent nods solemnly, extending his hand.

“You drive a hard bargain.”

Eli shakes it, equally serious.

“Great. Now come open my door for me again.”

***

Eli puts his skates on sitting in a stall next to Kent Parson in the official locker room of the Las Vegas Aces practice facility about to skate on the official Las Vegas Aces practice ice with Kent Parson and Jeff Troy of the Las Vegas Aces.

He struggles his way through this line of thought several times without it really computing.

Kent nudges Eli’s elbow with his knee and Eli fumbles his laces. He spares a quick annoyed sideways glance before starting over. Kent looks sheepish.

“You look like your head’s going to explode,” Kent says. “You ok?”

“I’m about to voluntarily get on the ice with two professional hockey players, you’re going to have to give me a minute,” Eli murmurs.

“I thought Swoops didn’t count,” Kent says.

“I always count,” Troy says as he enters the locker room, dropping his bag into the stall three down from Kent’s.

“You don’t even know what we’re talking about,” Kent points out.

“No I do not,” he agrees amicably. “Hey, Eli, right?”

“Yes,” Eli says.

_Jeff Troy is talking to me,_ he thinks. _Jeff Troy knows my name. I am about to skate with Jeff Troy. Holy shit._

_“_ You look like you’re going to spontaneously combust,” Troy says, “are you alright, kid?”

“Oh my god,” Eli mutters, “can you let me live?”

“He’s having a moment,” Kent advises Troy.

Troy laughs and sits to put on his skates. There are two pairs in his bag but he withdraws the figure skates—beautiful barely-worn Riedell boots—and Eli sighs a little.

“John Wilson Gold Seal blades?” he asks.

“Of course,” Troy says. “What else?”

“Only the best for Swoops,” Kent agrees wisely, as if he has any idea what they’re talking about.

Eli considers his well-worn, potentially over-worn if he’s being honest, Jackson boots and sighs again, resigned this time.

An NHL salary would be nice.

They make it onto the ice, dim-lit, freezing, and eerily quiet, a few minutes later where Troy and Kent immediately break into a game of tag that involves a lot of superfluous jumps on Troy’s part and a lot of swearing on Kent’s as he tries to maneuver around him in hockey skates.

Eli does a few slower laps at the periphery, watching, and then stops at the glass to check on Hawke. She’s content, comfortable on the blanket Kent bought for her, eyes following Eli’s movements.

Kent pulls to an abrupt stop beside him in a shower of ice, cheeks pink, and only gets out the beginning of a “hey” before Jeff runs him into the boards a moment later.

“There’s no checking in figure skating!” Kent yells, trying to shove him off and the two devolve into a wrestling match the ends with Kent clutching Eli’s leg and Swoops sitting on Kent's back, attempting to give Kent a mohawk.

Eli reminds himself that these men are professional athletes with more money than he can fathom and has to laugh. Maybe a little hysterically.

“So,” Jeff says, still sitting on Kent.“I hear you memorized my World Juniors routine.”

Eli throws Kent a betrayed look which Kent does not see because he’s face-down on the ice.

“I might have done that,” Eli admits.

“You still remember it?”

“Uh.”

“Because if you’ll do it, I’ll do it.”

How is this his life.

“I don’t—I can’t do it clean,” Eli says.

Jeff snorts, flopping sideways as Kent rolls to dislodge him.

“Neither can I, anymore. Just do whatever you can—skip the jumps if you want. I just want to see you skate.”

“We don’t have any music,” Eli says, maybe a little desperately.

“I have the key to the sound box and the song on my phone.”

“I haven’t warmed up?”

Jeff laughs. “Guess you’d better get started then.”

He stands, brushing ice off the Under Armour leggings that make his ass look magnificent, and skates off the ice, yelling something about leaving his phone in the locker room.

“I think I may pass out,” Eli informs Kent, who is still laying spread-eagle on the ice.

Kent flaps his arms and legs a few times like he’s making a snow angel.

“You’re fine. It’s just us. We’re not going to judge you.”

“I’m judging _you_ a little right now. What are you even doing?”

Kent sits up, absolutely covered in little flecks of ice, and sighs dramatically.

“You know I’ve never made a snow angel, before? Like. An actual one. In snow.”

Eli raises an eyebrow at the non-sequitur.

“Ok?”

“I bet it’s fun.”

“It’s mostly just cold,” Eli says. “And half the time you get snow down your pants that melts and then everything is terrible.”

“Stop talking,” Kent says. “You’re ruining it.”

“Stop flirting and warm up,” Jeff yells from the sound box.

Eli feels his face go hot but Kent just continues grinning at him like everything is fine, like this is normal, and Eli shakes out his legs, deciding to take Jeff’s advice before he does something stupid like run his fingers through Kent’s ridiculous mussed hair. It’s damp around the edges where the ice is starting to melt which makes him look like just got out of the shower or something and that—is not a train of thought Eli is going to follow. The boy is a menace and he doesn’t even seem to be doing it intentionally.

Eli takes a couples laps: fast, then slow, then transitions to a few easier jumps, enjoying the untouched ice—finding his edges, warming up his muscles in the colder-than-usual air. He’s glad Hawke has a blanket between her and the bleachers.

Just as he’s starting to feel limber enough to attempt some harder tricks, Jeff yells, “are you ready?” and the sound system cuts on with a crackle.

“ _Now_?”

“Well we don’t have all night. You need to do your makeup or something first?”

“I hate you,” Eli calls, moving to center ice.

“Don’t play. You memorized my routine. You love me.”

“Loved. Past tense. Crush is officially terminated.”

“This is devastating news.”

“I thought flirting wasn’t allowed,” Kent interrupts, leaning against the boards by the bench. He looks weirdly grumpy—though that could just be the dark shadows on his face.

“Alright, alright,” Eli says, wiggling a little in place before going still. “I’m ready.”

The music starts—loud in the silence, shocking like a plunge into cold water—and the moment the first beginning cello cords start, muscle memory takes over.

The song is _Secrets_ by One Republic and he knows it as intimately as he does his own body. He’s simultaneously nine years old—full of the kind of indomitable confidence that only youth affords, and sixteen years old—in a hospital bed eyes closed against the song playing in his headphones, uncertain if he’ll ever skate again. He’s seventeen and applying for colleges and bribing the zamboni driver to give him another twenty minutes after practice because he’s _behind_ , dammit, so stressed he feels like he’s going to explode. And he’s eighteen and skating Jeff Troy’s routine in front of Jeff Troy hoping desperately he doesn’t embarrass himself in a dark rink with echoing ceilings and low lights and—it’s surreal, is what it is.

He changes the first triple axel to a double and lands it, but he doesn’t make the full rotation on the second and falls to a knee, adjusting the choreography a little to keep going. He finishes clean otherwise, a little sloppy, not enough momentum on the flying spin, but he finishes, better than he anticipated, breathing hard, heartbeat loud in his ears as the final clash of music is followed by silence.

And then Kent starts clapping.

“The kid can skate!” Jeff yells from the booth with a whoop.

Eli bends at the waist to rest his hand on his knees, probably looking a little insane with how big he’s smiling, but he can’t help it—and then Kent skates into him, gentle but exuberant, one hand on the back of his still-bowed neck, shaking him a little.

“That was _awesome.”_

_“Way_ better than I could do it now,” Jeff agrees, joining them at a more sedate pace. “Seriously, you’re a little rough around the edges but you’re good. Really good.”

“I used to be,” he agrees, straightening. “I think it’s your turn, now.”

Jeff balks. “After that? Are you kidding?”

“Hey,” Kent says, “you promised.”

Jeff sighs. “Alright, but if I break an ankle I’m telling management that you’re a destructive influence.”

“Is that something we should actually be concerned about?” Eli asks as he and Kent make their way to the sound booth.

“Nah, he knows his limits. He won’t actually do anything that might jeopardize his play. He’s just overly dramatic.” Kent glances sideways at him, badly containing a smile. “I think it’s a figure skater thing,” he says seriously. “Very emotional, those types.”

“Right, because hockey players aren’t known for their theatrics at all,” Eli agrees.

Kent’s eyes go all crinkly with amusement as he ducks into the sound booth to start the music over and Eli moves to sit on the bench next to him, shoulder-to-shoulder, still breathing a little hard.

The music swells to life again, Jeff begins the opening choreography at center ice, and Kent leans into his space, head turned to speak directly into Eli’s ear.

“Seriously, though. I know next to nothing about that shit, but your skating is beautiful, man.”

The words are earnest, Kent’s breath warm against the sweat beginning to dry cold on Eli’s neck.

He shivers.

“Thanks. I didn’t—I haven’t practiced it in a while, it was honestly a fluke I didn’t fall more.”

“Beautiful,” Kent repeats, firm, and then throws one arm over Eli’s shoulder, chaffing his palm against the goosebumps on the curve of his bicep.

Eli leans into him, just a little, eyes on Jeff as he settles into the first spin, still elegant despite his hockey-bulk, and tries desperately to remember every second of the next four minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:  
> Hiking has been extraordinary! I go home on Monday and am looking forward to a bit of down time before the semester starts. I apologize for getting so behind with answering comments--there's over a hundred in my inbox currently, but I'll try to get to them shortly. See you next week!


	6. Chapter 6

Eli goes home with the personal number of a second NHL player in his phone and the kind of memories that you can’t pay for.

Memories like Jeff Troy skating the routine that changed his life mere feet in front of him.

Memories like skating _with_ Jeff Troy.

Memories like being kicked off the ice at 11pm by a fond but harried zamboni driver.

Memories like sharing a vending machine Snickers bar with Kent Parson at midnight, giggling like they’re getting away with something, sitting on the floor in a dark back hallway of the skating complex.

Memories like leaning out the open window of Kent’s Land Rover, exhausted, eyes watering from the wind, grinning at the blur of nighttime Vegas lights as Kent drove Eli home.

Kent texts him to make sure he gets into his dorm room safe despite the fact that Kent had just watched him walk inside the security door two minutes before.

_What do you think is going to happen between the lobby and the third floor?_ Eli texts back. He waves from his window but isn’t sure if Kent can see him where his car is still idling at the curb.

_It’s 1 am._ Kent answers. _I dunno. Shit happens._

Eli tells Kent to check in once he’s home safe as well since apparently they’re being ridiculous.

Kent does.

With a picture of Kit for good measure.

Jeff—and he is Jeff, now, in Eli’s head, just like Kent is no longer “Parson”—texts him a picture of Kent asleep on the plane the following morning. It’s not flattering at all but Eli finds it hopelessly endearing anyway.

_You’re a bad influence_ , Jeff captions it. _He always plays cards with Nasher on morning flights and now his routine will be off. If we lose tomorrow it’s your fault._

_It’s a preseason game,_ Eli answers. _You’ll survive. And who’s idea was it to go skating last night anyway??_

He doesn’t get an answer until several hours later:

_Kent’s_

Which…hm.

He texts Kent the following night after the Aces’ win against the Blues 1-0. Not that Eli checked or anything.

_Go team. Do the thing. Win the points._

_Did you watch??_ Kent responds less than a minute later, despite the fact that the game has only just finished.

_Nope_

Kent sends a range of distressed emojis.

_I got an assist,_ Kent says a while later when Eli still hasn’t responded.

_You want a gold star?_

_Yes plz._

The next morning Eli wakes up to a FaceTime call from Jeff. Well. Kent and Jeff, who are apparently sitting next to each other on a plane that was supposed to have taken off thirty minutes ago.

“He’s being a nuisance,” Jeff says when Eli answers, sleep-bleary and honestly a little grumpy. “Please distract him.”

“Hi,” Eli manages, squinting.

Kent fumbles Jeff’s phone as it’s passed to him and Eli gets to look at the ceiling of the airplane for a minute until Kent retrieves the phone from the floor.

“Sorry,” he says. “I told him not to call you, but—“

“And I told _you_ to quit complaining—“ Jeff says in the background. “As if it’d be better that they _didn’t_ fix the bathroom before we’re airborne for four hours.”

“I wasn’t complaining that much,” Kent says to Eli.

“He really was,” Jeff disagrees. “And now that he has a friend outside of the team you better believe I’m going to take advantage of it. Keep him occupied for a bit, will you?”

Eli assumes Jeff is talking to him.

“Uh. Okay?”

“I’m sorry,” Kent says. “Honestly, I swear, I’ll shut up. You can go back to sleep.”

“No, it’s ok. My alarm goes off in”—he checks—“sixteen minutes. So I can talk until then.”

“Practice?” Kent asks.

“Mmmhm. Need to take Hawke to the lawn and throw the ball for her first. And get some breakfast.”

Hawke perks up, hearing her name, and wiggles her way to the head of the bed from where she’d been sprawled across Eli’s feet.

“Oh, good morning, Hawke,” Kent says.

Hawke shoves her nose in Eli’s armpit and then sneezes.

“She says good morning back,” Eli says dryly.

“Plans for the day?” Kent asks.

“Ugh. I don’t know. Practice. Probably going to get some stuff for my dorm from Target since it’s embarrassingly empty. And I need to find another kitchen to use because half the shit in this one is broken. I mean, one oven won’t get above two hundred degrees and the other is being used for _storage_ right now.”

He presses his face into his pillow for a moment. “I may ask the Morgans at practice what theirs is like. _Every_ dorm kitchen on campus can’t be this terrible.”

Jeff says something muffled off-screen and Kent turns away to tell him that Eli and his best friend have a youtube channel where they post cooking and baking videos. Jeff hadn’t been there when they’d talked about that the night before the Aces left for their road trip—when they’d shared the two-dollar Snickers from the vending machine.

“Oh, cool. A vlog? What’s it called?” Jeff asks, leaning into Kent’s shoulder.

Eli can only see the edge Jeff’s eyebrow because Kent is holding the phone so close to his own face. The freckles are in full effect.  
“I already asked,” Kent says. “He wouldn’t tell me.”

“Well you can use my kitchen,” Jeff says. “Alex can let you in. She works from home but has her own office upstairs so she wouldn’t be in your way.”

“Oh, I couldn’t—“

“My place is closer to your dorm,” Kent interrupts. “Only four miles away. And the kitchen is really nice.”

“How would you know?” Jeff asks. “Have you ever even turned on a stove burner?”

Kent flushes. “Well I don’t use my oven for storage, at least. And all the appliances are brand new. And there’s…a lot of counter space?”

He looks like he’s trying to remember what the realtor said when they sold him the place.

“Kent does have a shit ton of counter-space,” Jeff allows.

“My doorman can let you in. His name is Dorian—I can text him and let him know you’re coming.” He pauses. “Kit will be there, though. Will Hawke try to eat her?”

Eli blinks.

“Uh. No? Hawke is great with cats. If I leave her vest on she’ll ignore her. If I take it off she’ll probably try to cuddle her.”

Kent looks only a little relieved.

“Okay. Well. Kit can be kind of…”

“A bitch,” Jeff supplies.

Kent wrinkles his nose.

“I’m not wrong,” Jeff says.

“Not—entirely,” Kent admits. “So, uh. Watch your ankles. If you go.”

“I’m—are you serious? You’d let me just go cook in your kitchen? When you’re not there?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Because you only just met me three days ago! And I could be some sort of deep-cover crazy journalist who will snoop through you stuff and—and write a damning expose or something.”

It’s silent for a moment.

He’s pretty sure Kent and Jeff—or Jeff’s eyebrow at least—are judging him.

“Are you a deep-cover crazy journalist planning to snoop through my stuff and write a damning expose?” Kent asks.

“Do deep-cover hockey journalists even exist?” Jeff asks.

“No, I’m not,” Eli says, exasperated, “but I wouldn’t admit to it if I was!”

“How much sleep didyou get last night?” Kent asks, and he has the audacity to actually look concerned.

“Oh my god,” Eli mutters. “Fine. I’ll go use your stupid kitchen tonight.”

“Great! I’ll let Dorian know. There’s handicapped parking for visitors in the lot on the right hand side. Use the intercom at the door to tell Concierge you’re there to visit my place and then Dorian will meet you at the main desk in the lobby. He’ll give you a fob to access the elevator and a key for the door.”

Eli is feeling a little overwhelmed. “Uh. Okay? Can you give me like, an address? And tell me which apartment is yours? And maybe repeat all of that again?”

Jeff murmurs something indistinct, and Kent looks sheepish.

“Sorry, I forgot you’d just woken up. I’ll text you all the details, ok?”

“Mmkay.”

“You look really tired.”

Eli spares a moment to glare at Kent.

“Do you want to go back to sleep for ten minutes before your alarm goes off?”

“Thought I was supposed to be sparing your team your theatrics,” Eli reminds him, yawning.

Jeff sighs, overly loud. “I suppose I can shoulder the burden for a while longer.”

“Okay,”Eli agrees, flapping one hand. “Nice talking to y’all,” he says, because even half asleep his mama raised him to be polite. “Goodnight.”

“Night,” Kent agrees, grinning at him.

Kent has a very nice smile.

And face in general.

And everything, really.

Eli hangs up because he’s staring, curls an arm around Hawke, and goes right back to sleep.

***

Kit Purson is quite possibly the strangest cat Eli has ever seen. She looks more like a ferret than a cat—like a long, fluffy white tube sock with ears. Really big ears. She has a narrow face and wide-set grey-green eyes and a very insistent meow.

He stands just inside the door, apprehensive, as she approaches him, then sits a few feet away, studying first him, then Hawke.

Hawke’s nose twitches excitedly, but she otherwise keeps her heel.

After several more seconds of consideration, Kit jumps onto the kitchen island, tucks herself into a little loaf, and blinks slowly at him.

Eli takes that as tacit approval of their presence and moves further inside, kicking off his shoes and removing Hawke’s vest. He tells her to lay down out of the way and then takes a moment to just stare out the window.

Kent’s place is ridiculous, which he expected considering he’s a single NHL superstar living in Vegas, but Eli was wholly unprepared for the _view_ out Kent’s penthouse floor-to-ceiling windows.

The whole strip is laid out before him, lit up in neon that fades to shades of dark blue against the backdrop of the nearly-set sun on the distant mountains.

It’s quite possibly one of the most beautiful things Eli has ever seen.

And Kent gets to look at this _every day_.

He whistles to himself, then moves to lean against the island—a granite monstrosity that doesn’t look very comfortable at all.

Kit doesn’t seem to mind.

“This is a little unhygienic, you know,” he tells her.

“I’ll need to use this area for prep in a minute. Do you think you could relocate?”

She blinks at him.

“Or not. That’s fine. Maybe I’ll just use this side over here, it’s big enough for both of us, huh?”

He takes his laptop and portable light out of his backpack, setting them up on the opposite counter, and then stands in the middle of the kitchen, hands on hips, and takes in his surroundings.

The place is shockingly neat. Simply but elegantly decorated in shades of grey and white, an Aces sweatshirt on the couch, running shoes by the front door. There are two closed doors on either side of the living area which he assumes are bedrooms.

“Well,” he says to Kit, who is still watching him sleepily but has yet to show any of the malice he expected. “Shall we get started?”

She appears to approve.

He unloads his canvas bag of ingredients and starts searching through cabinets. He figured Kent would have the basics and he’s right, though nearly all of them still have their William’s Sonoma sticky tags on the bottom. He sighs a little at the injustice of it all and gets to work.

Two hours later he sits at the bar facing the Vegas skyline eating probably the best Chicken Ragout he’s ever created, editing footage and listening to the Vinyl version of Badlands because of course Kent is the kind of pretentious bastard that has record player.

Eli refuses to think it sounds better on vinyl (But it does. It totally does).

He texts Kent a picture of his bowl and asks if he wants some boxed up and put in the freezer for when he gets back.

Kent sends back several heart-eyes emojis—which Eli takes as a yes—and then Kent asks if Kit is behaving herself.

_She seems pretty apprehensive about Hawke but I topped off her water and shared a bit of chicken with her so I think we’re friends now._ Eli answers. _She monitored my entire cooking process from the island._

It takes Kent several minutes to answer.

_Yeah, that’s one of her favorite spots. She didn’t get rude with you, though?_

_Nope. Perfect lady._

_Huh. Cool. Got to head out for warmups. I’ll ttyl._

Eli moves to find some tupperware but backtracks when his phone buzzes with another text from Kent.

_u know since ur at my place and I have NHL netwrk u should watch the game._

_I’ll consider it_ Eli answers.

He gets a praying hands emoji and a winky face back.

Eli rolls his eyes and take a detour into the living room to stop the record player and turn on the TV instead.

It’s not like he’ll watch the whole thing, but playing it in the background while he finishes editing wouldn’t hurt.

Three hours later, Eli leaves Kent’s condo with a sore throat from yelling at the refs.

_Good game_ he texts Kent _. That was some bullshit calling, though. Is your ankle ok?_

He doesn’t get a response until after he’s home and in bed.

_Tell me about it. Just bruised. Scratched next game though. Maybe two._

_That sucks._

_Yeah._

Eli takes a picture of Hawke, sleeping upside-down, her little bottom teeth and edge of a pink tongue showing, and sends it to Kent because he doesn’t know what else to do.

Kent sends back a laughing emoji. _Thanks._

_Hawke says goodnight_ Eli says.

_Goodnight Hawke._

_I say goodnight too._

_Goodnight Eli._

_Goodnight Kent._

_***_

Eli’s phone rings in the middle of what he is certain is a very important REM cycle. He fumbles for it in the sheets for a moment, squints at the caller ID, and answers.

“Oh my god, Eric, it’s five in the morning here. Three hour time difference, remember?”

“Elijah.”

There is a continent of feeling in the way Eric says his name.

Eli is instantly awake.

“What? What’s happened? Are you ok?”

“No I’m fine, it’s just—you’re on TMZ.”

“I’m what?”

“It’s—someone recognized Kent’s cat in the video you posted last night. And then Iguess Kent has done Skype interviews with SportsCenter in his kitchen before and someone made a post with screenshots on Tumblr? And it just kind of blew up. Not like, big big, but hockey big. Our channel has over forty thousand subscribers now and the comments—“

“Fuck. _Fuck,_ I need to call Kent. Do—are they saying he’s gay?”

“No? I mean, some of the posts on Tumblr are, sure. But not the hockey blogs and stuff so far. Mostly those are just speculation about who you are and how you have access to his place while he’s on a roadie.”

“Oh. Well that’s not—so what are people saying?”

“It’s…sweetheart it’s not very nice.”

“Eric.”

Eric exhales. “Well that asshole Ron Barrowman who runs the blog _Thin Ice_? He said you were probably the petsitter or housekeeper or something and took advantage of the fact that Kent was out of town.”

“That’s not so bad. I mean. A little racist, maybe, but—“

Eric sighs again.

“Barrowman also wrote that Kent probably didn’t know you were gay and if he had he wouldn’t have let you into his home. He made some jokes too. About what else you might have done in Kent’s house while he was away.”

“Oh.”

Eli takes a breath.

“Well. That’s still better than—I mean. That’s okay.”

“Elijah.”

“It is! People thinking I’m some sort of pervy fan is better than—“

His phone buzzes with an incoming call and his stomach goes sour.

“Hey, Eric? Kent is calling. I’ve gotta—“

“No, yeah, go.”

He hangs up on Eric and closes his eyes as the call transfers to Kent.

“I’m so sorry,” he says.

“Hey, I—“ Kent cuts off. “What?”

“Eric just called me about TMZ and Thin Ice, I didn’t—“

“Shit. You read Barrowman’s latest post?”

“Oh, no? Eric was just telling me about it. Kent I—“

“Don’t read it,” Kent says darkly. “My publicist is threatening him right now trying to get it taken down.”

“I’m sorry,” Eli repeats and he knows that his voice is going funny but he can’t help it. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t even think—“

“Why are you apologizing?” Kent asks. “I’m calling to apologize to _you_. The stuff they’re saying about you is bullshit and I never would have suggested you use my kitchen if I’d know this is the shit you’d have to deal with.”

Kent sounds so honestly, genuinely angry on his behalf that Eli is briefly uncertain how to respond.

“Oh.”

“So. Yeah. I’m really sorry. I’m about to make some tweets. I just wanted to warn you—sounds like Eric beat me to it, though.”

“Yeah. Apparently our channel has a ton more followers now, though,” Eli says.

Kent makes a considering noise. “Are people talking shit in the comments?”

“I haven’t looked.”

They both go quiet.

“So,” Eli says, just to make sure. “You’re not mad at me?”

“What the fuck? No. Why would I be mad at you?”

“I’m—it’s pretty clear on our channel that both Eric and I are gay. Me filming in your kitchen—people could make assumptions. Are making assumptions, in some cases.”

Kent makes a dismissive noise.

“Go check my twitter. Tell me if you want me to say anything else.”

Eli squints against the brightness of his phone, thumbing open the twitter app and searching for Kent’s handle.

KParson90 retweeted a link to Barrowman’s article with the added comment: _His name is Eli not “teenage twink.” He had permission to use my kitchen because he’s my friend. If you had those you’d understand._

KParson90 tweeted: _My friend Eli is an awesome cook and if you’re going to be a dick about his sexuality you aren’t allowed to sit with us (or enjoy his delicious Chicken Ragout)._

This tweet is accompanied by the picture Eli had sent Kent the night before.

KParson90 tweeted: _Also if you see a brown guy in my kitchen and your first thought is that the help must be overstepping their bounds you’re racist as hell and can kindly fuck right off._

_“_ The last one might be a little heavy-handed,” Eli says.

“Hey, I said ‘kindly.’”

“Well. Your publicist probably isn’t going to like it,” he murmurs.

“Probably not,” Kent agrees. “But do you?”

“Yeah,” he says, grinning a little into the fabric of his pillow. “I do. Thanks.”

“Good. Hey, I know it’s super early for you. Go back to sleep, okay? We can deal with this more when its actually light outside.”

“Okay.”

“Cool. I’ll call you back once we’re in Detroit. Probably around 11:30am your time, that work?”

“Mmhm.”

“Hey Eli?”

“Yeah?”

“You realize I have access to your youtube channel now.”

“Oh no.”

“Jeff and I are going to watch all your videos on the plane. Would you rather I send running commentary or save all my thoughts for date number three because—”

Eli hangs up on him.

Kent sends him an emoji blowing a kiss.

Eli groans and goes back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm selling my house rather unexpectedly--for more info on that dumpster fire hit up my tumblr (actually it looks like everything is going to turn out better than expected, I sort of inadvertently flipped a house, basically--yay money!). This means a little less writing time than expected before the semester starts, but I'm going to still aim for weekly updates.
> 
> See you soon!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eli has a brief tonic-clonic seizure in this chapter. Hawke alerts to it and everything is fine, but just a heads up if that will bother you.

It doesn’t occur to Eli until half-past eight, fifteen minutes into his blessed cup of coffee— _the first he’s been allowed in a_ week _, how did he even live?_ —that he and Kent are not the only ones effected by the whole kitchen debacle. Eric has also been outed.

He nearly spills his coffee in his haste to get to his phone.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Eric answers. “How you doing?”

“I’m so sorry,” Eli says. “It didn’t even occur to me until just now that you were effectively outed by extension with this whole Kent’s kitchen thing. Are you ok? Is your team—uh—are they being cool?”

“Oh yeah,” Eric pauses for a moment, murmuring something in the background. “No, they’ve been great. I’m at the Haus with them as we speak.”

“The house?”

“No, the _Haus_ —didn’t I tell you about it? It’s—“ he cuts off again, saying lowly, “Adam, don’t touch that, it’s not ready” before addressing Eli again.

“Anyway, it’s like a frat house I guess, where some of the hockey team lives and they throw their parties.”

“You’re using a kitchen in a frat house? To make food? That you plan to eat?”

“You hush your mouth, it’s better than the dorm kitchens—something I’d think you would understand considering your predicament.”

“Valid.”

“Anyway, I actually spent the night here because they had a little party yesterday. Shitty is the one who saw the news first. He likes to take his iPad to the roof and check all the gossip blogs while doing yoga in the morning. It’s a thing.

“A beautiful thing!” someone yells distantly in the background.

“Yoga?” Eli says, a little baffled. He can’t picture a hockey player, particularly a hockey player named ‘Shitty,’ doing yoga.

“Well. He does it naked. I’m not sure how much of it is about the yoga and how much of it is about doing a lot of downward dog poses facing the LAX house.”

“Oh god.”

“The rivalry is real. And their kitchen window faces us.”

“I see.”

“Yeah.”

“So Shitty woke you up?” Eli prompts.

“Right, and said a lot of supportive things and asked me what I wanted to do and I—well I panicked a little but he brought me downstairs and got me some water and a couple of the other boys were up and they were all so nice. And then I called you.”

“So none of them have—“

“Oh no. And—well I don’t think it was a surprise to anyone, honestly. They’re more excited about the baking aspect than anything else. I’ve mostly only made pies so far but now that they know I can do cookies and cobblers and a mean cheesecake as well—”

“You’re making cheesecake right now, aren’t you?” Eli asks.

“Yes, but Holster isn’t going to get any if he doesn’t SIT DOWN AND STOP PLAYING WITH THE MIXER. These boys, honestly.”

Eli snorts.

“Mixer? You decide to not buy books this semester?”

“Lord no, it just sort of—appeared? In the kitchen an hour ago. Light blue Kitchen Aid. The one that I’ve mentioned oh, a thousand times on the channel. I have my suspicions it was Shitty since only two of the boys have that kind of disposable income and it definitely wasn’t _Jack_ ,” his voice goes dark for a minute. “But! I came back to the Haus for lunch and it was just there! And I’m not about to look a gift horse in the—ADAM BIRKHOLTZ if you touch that mixer one more time I swear to god—“

Eli grins, leaning back against the wall and Hawke nudges his thigh with her nose: a gentle request for pets.

He obliges because he knows if he ignores her the requests will get less gentle.

“So you’re good,” he says to Eric. Just to be sure.

“I am. Thanks for checking, though.”

“I’m sorry it didn’t occur to me sooner.”

“Don’t even worry about it, you had bigger things on your mind. I saw Kent Parson’s tweets. I like that boy. Doesn’t seem like he’s mad at all.”

“He’s not. He was actually calling because he was worried about me. I think his publicist is trying to get the Barrowman blog post taken down, I don’t know, he said he’d call back later once they land in Detroit.”

“Good,” Eric says approvingly. “Don’t read the post.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“So what are you going to do with your Saturday?”

“There’s an optional practice—basically just open ice time from twelve to two, other than that I’m not sure. I may go back to Kent’s place again tonight. Might as well get a buffer of videos done while I have the time and the space.”

“You’re still going to use his kitchen?”

Eli shrugs, realizes Eric can’t see that, and makes a “why not” noise.

“Damage is already done. Might as well. Besides,” he sighs. “It’s a really, really, nice kitchen.”

“I know,” Eric says dryly. “I’ve seen the video. Along with a couple hundred thousand other people. And counting.”

“Yeah yeah. What about you?” Eli asks. “Plans for the day? Besides cheesecake?”

“Killing Holster,” he says, intentionally loud. “I’m pretty sure there’s a kiln in the art building big enough to incinerate a body.”

“Damn,” someone says in the background, sounding impressed. “Bitty doesn’t mess around. Better watch out, Holtzy.”

“Don’t think you’re exempt, Mr. Oluransi,” Eric says, “I saw you sneak a finger into that bowl a minute ago.”

Eric sighs into the phone. “I swear, it’s worse than cooking at Moomaw’s with all the baby cousins around.”

There’s a racket in the background—several shouting voices and a slammed door—and it takes a minute before Eric speaks again.

“Sorry, the rest of the team just got here, I should probably go before— _Shitty B. Knight don’t you dare_ —“

The call ends and Eli smiles into his coffee mug.

Eric sounds…happy. Not just happy, though. Confident. Something Eli had honestly been very afraid Eric wouldn’t ever be playing hockey at a collegiate level. He’s so grateful to Eric’s team, so relieved that they have been kind where many teams—with players who thought and acted like Barrowman— would have become vicious.

He finishes his coffee and collects Hawke’s leash, shoving on his shoes.

He needs something to distract himself or he’s going to go find that stupid blog post.

“You want to go for a walk?” he asks.

Completely unsurprisingly, she does.

***

Over the next four days, Kent’s publicist reigns victorious, the worst blog posts and articles are taken down or retracted, and the internet more or less appears to forget about Eli.

Eli makes three more videos, stuffs Kent’s freezer full of more-or-less diet-friendly tupperware meals, and works his way through a quarter of Kent’s record collection. Kit now greets him with a chirp and a disdainful look at Hawke. She still has yet to let him pet her, but he figures that’s fine. They’ll get there eventually.

Kent calls him the night the team returns to Vegas and at first Eli can’t understand him because he’s clearly talking with a mouthful of food.

“What?” he says for the third time.

Kent makes an exasperated noise and hangs up on him. Less than thirty seconds later it rings again.

“Hello?”

“ _Eli_ ,” Kent says. “This is the best damn thing I have ever tasted. I can’t even—how did you make _turkey_ chili taste this good?”

“I don’t—oh, are you eating the chili I left in the freezer?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Well. Thank you?”

“I will pay you to make this for me every week. I’m not even kidding. Holy shit.”

There’s a clink of cutlery and a low moan on the other side of the phone and Eli tries not to dwell on exactly how indecent Kent sounds while eating food he’s made.

“Well. If you keep letting me use your kitchen I can definitely do that.”

Kent mumbles something around his mouthful.

“What?”

“Groceries,” he says. “You make me food and I’ll buy all your groceries—whatever you need for you and for me. I’ll give you a card. Or Venmo you or whatever.”

“Oh, you don’t—“ he does, actually, because Eli only has so much disposable income and routinely feeding a hockey player would be no small addition to the budget—

“Don’t even,” Kent interrupts. “I’m paying for it. Holy shit this is good. Hey, what’s in the blue containers?”

“Oh, that’s chicken stuffed Eggplant with quinoa and tahini.”

“I haven’t seen that video,” Kent says, sounding vaguely affronted.

“I haven’t posted it yet, I made a buffer since I had the time and knew I wouldn’t be bothering you if I went over.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, you won’t be bothering me even if I’m here, so you can come over whenever. Hey, are you free tomorrow night?”

“To come cook?”

“No, for date number three.”

“Oh.” Which, Eli had forgotten about the catalyst for this whole thing. “Sure. What do you want to do?”

“It’s a surprise. I’ll pick you up at five-thirty, cool?”

“Five-thirty? That’s early.”

“I have an early bedtime.”

“No you don’t.”

“Eli, can I pick you up at five-thirty?”

“I guess?”

“Good. See you then.”

Kent hangs up and Eli remains baffled.

***

Kent arrives at 5:23 the following day, blanket on the back seats for Hawke, an extra gatorade in the cupholder.

He looks tanner than Eli remembered—freckles even more stark over the bridge of his nose.

“Hi!”

His enthusiasm is contagious.

“Hi,” Eli parrots. “How was your trip?”

“You talked to me every day, you know exactly how my trip was. Three wins, one loss. A bruised ankle and a very pissed off Mashkov.”

Eli realizes Kent’s rose-gold aviators match his massive white-marble-faced watch today and smiles despite himself.

Eli tries to determine when he started finding Kent’s horrible bro fashion endearing. That’s probably not a good sign,

“So where are we going?”

“Surprise,” Kent reminds him, pulling out of the parking lot. “Buckle your seatbelt.”

Fifteen minutes later, Kent puts the car in park, gesturing expansively at the building in front of them, and Eli is lost.

“Goodwill?” Eli asks incredulously. “You’re taking me to Goodwill? That’s the illustrious third date?

“Oh no,” Kent says seriously, “don’t be ridiculous. This is the pre-date. The tailgate of the date, if you will. The Official Date Pregame.”

“Right. So. We’re pre-gaming our date at Goodwill?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m lost.”

“Before we go to dinner we have to pick out outfits for our date. Here.”

Eli just looks at Kent.

“We’ll set a cost maximum of…fifteen dollars? Yeah. Fifteen dollars.”

“So I just have to pick some clothes, change, and then we go? Is this some sort of weird thing rich people do?”

“Oh no,” Kent’s serious expression finally breaks,“No no. I will pick your outfit. You will pick mine. The more ridiculous the better. And then we will go out to eat at a very nice restaurant and have to pretend that everything is completely normal and we are wearing normal outfits that we intentionally chose to leave the house in.”

“Oh my god,” Eli says, suddenly understanding. “There are going to be so many pictures.”

“So many,” Kent agrees somberly.

“What will TMZ say?”

“I’m frankly looking forward to finding out.”

***

It takes them forty-five minutes and a not insignificant amount of laughter to pick out their clothes for the evening. Kent ends up wearing high-waisted metallic parachute pants straight out of the 80’s with a pale pink shirt and wide-lapeled floral blazer. Eli is wearing a three-piece suit—each individual piece a different color of plaid, and a turquoise trilby. They clash horribly and it is magnificent.

They leave wearing their purchases, much to the bemusement of the cashier, and they’re not able to keep straight faces while the hostess at the five-star steakhouse—the actual date—tries and utterly fails to not stare while seating them.

They giggle through ordering appetizers and drinks, their waitress impressively impassive as she repeats back their requests, and then grin at each other while other patrons try to surreptitiously take pictures of them.

“This is kind of nice, actually,” Kent says, taking a sip of his wine. “I don’t think any of them are taking pictures of me because I’m Kent Parson.”

“The blazer is so terrible no one’s even noticed your face,”

“Or Hawke,” Kent points out.

“We should do this all the time,” Eli agrees.

They’ve only just ordered their main course when Hawke sits up under the table and paws at Eli’s knee.

Eli closes his eyes—too slow to be a blink—and exhales.

Hawke nudges him again, insistent, and Eli sets aside his napkin and moves to slide out of the booth, picking up his backpack from the floor. Because apparently this is happening.

“I’m—“

Hawke swats at his knee again, whining.

“What’s wrong?” Kent says.

Apparently his face is doing a thing.

“I’m about to have a seizure. I can’t—I’ll explain after, okay? But I have to go. It’ll be probably fifteen minutes, maybe more.”

“What the fuck? Go where? Are you—“ Kent looks from Hawke, clearly agitated, back up to Eli’s face. Kent takes a breath.

“What do you need me to do?”

And that—Eli is pretty sure that’s Kent’s Captain Voice. Which is something he’ll need to revisit later.

“Nothing. Just wait here. Hawke knows how to take care of me. I’ll be back, okay? Just don’t—don’t leave. Please.”

“Okay.”

He finds their waitress in the hall by the kitchen.

“Hi,” he says, making sure he has her full attention, “I have a seizure disorder and my service dog just alerted me that I’m about to have one. Is there a back room where I can lay down for a few minutes? It’s no big deal and I’ll be fine, I’d just rather not go hang out in the bathroom if I can help it.”

“Oh,” she says, a little wide-eyed. “Yeah, we have—there’s a break room, will that work?”

“Perfect.”

Hawke head-butts his knee and Eli winces, gesturing for her to lead the way.

The break room is pretty standard. A table with mismatched chairs, a microwave, sink and refrigerator. There’s couch along the back wall.

The waitress tucks her hair behind one ear. “Is this okay, or—“

He shifts his backpack on his shoulder. “This is perfect, thanks.”

“Do you need me to—“

“No. If anything bad happens the dog will bark to get someone’s attention. But that’s never happened before. This is pretty normal for us. We’ll be out in ten or fifteen minutes.”

“Alright. I’ll put a note on the door not to disturb you. Is there—are you sure you don’t need anything?”

“Nope. We’re good.”

She leaves the room with a last concerned glance from him to Hawke and then closes the door.

Eli lets out his breath, setting his backpack, jacket, and the stupid turquoise trilby on the couch. There’s a compact travel blanket in the front pocket of his bag that he lays out on the floor, then pulls up the emergency contact screen with his medical information on his phone and puts that on the floor as well.

Hawke whines.

“I know, baby girl. Give me a second.”

He lays down, holds up one arm so Hawke can press herself along his ribcage, and takes a deep breath, focusing on the weight of Hawke’s head on his chest.

It hasn’t gotten any less uncomfortable: asking for accommodations, but doing it dressed head to toe in plaid definitely upped the embarrassing factor.

He exhales, closes his eyes, and waits.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been when he opens his eyes again, which remains disconcerting no matter how many times he does this. Hawke is mostly on top of him, licking his ear, and as the fuzziness fades and he starts to feel like person again he takes stock of himself and—

He sits up, pushing Hawke off of him roughly enough that he’ll feel bad about it later.

Fuck.

_Fuck_.

He takes a moment to breathe and not like, punch the couch or something, because it isn’t the couch's fault that he’s just pissed the stupid plaid pants he’s wearing. That’s why the travel blanket is waterproof. That’s why he carries an extra pair of leggings and gallon zipper bags in his backpack all the time.

But preparation doesn’t negate the fact that he’s going to walk back out into the restaurant where Kent Parson is waiting and it’s going to be immediately obvious what has just happened.

He briefly considers just…not leaving the room.

Briefly.

“Sorry,” he tells Hawke, who is watching him a little sadly.

He gives her ears an apology skritch and then goes about changing, shoving his boxers, the blanket, and the plaid pants into ziplock bags and then shoving those bags with more violence than is strictly necessary into the bottom of his backpack. After a moment of thought, he crumples the trilby and pushes it into the backpack as well.

He considers how he feels—slight headache, a little tired and off-balance, but no worse for wear—then examines his reflection in the mirror next to the sink. With just the plaid vest and leggings he almost looks normal, at least.

The scar that cups his ear, trailing down the line of his throat, seems particularly stark in the fluorescent lighting. He rubs it with his thumb for moment, stalling, and then turns around, takes a fortifying breath, opens the door, and walks purposefully back to the table.

Kent is hunched over, spinning his phone anxiously, and immediately jerks upright when Eli rounds the corner.

“Are you ok? What did—Dude, are you wearing different pants?—“

Comprehension dawns and Kent goes quiet.

“Can we go?” Eli asks.

Kent snaps his fingers at the waitress which is super rude and they’ll need to talk about that later but—

“Hey,” Kent says to the girl. “Can you get me the check? We have to leave.”

She nods and Kent half-stands, digging in his pocket. He leans forward and hands his keys to Eli.

“You want to go hang out in the car? I’ll finish up here and meet you there in a minute.”

“Okay.”

“You alright to go by yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

There’s a little worried pinch between Kent’s eyebrows and Eli hates it.

He goes to wait in the car.

When Kent joins him a few minutes later, it’s with three takeout boxes in his hands.

“Our food was just coming out so I had them box it for us, and I didn’t know if you’d want bread or not so I had them throw a couple rolls in as well.”

“Okay.”

Kent passes the boxes over, running a hand through his poor, wild, hair.

He takes a breath, opens his mouth, closes it again with a scowl, and starts the car.

It’s quiet until they’re on the highway.

“So,” Kent says, “do you want me to just take you home or—?Maybe we could go back to my place?”

“What? Why?”

“To…eat?”

Kent looks genuinely confused.

“I’m—“ Eli feels a little lost. “I need a shower.”

“I have one of those. And clothes you could borrow. Or we could go to your place, I just figured you wouldn’t want the circus it could cause if I went up to your room with you. Or I could just drop you off if you want to call it a day, you don’t have to—“

“Kent. It’s—your place is fine. But. Maybe we can stop by my dorm first? So I can, uh, put my clothes in the washing machine?”

“I have a washer too,” Kent points out. “Top of the line. It even has wifi connectivity.”

“It does not.”

“It does too! The app lets me know when it’s done. And I can check and see how much time is left whenever I want. It has Flex Wash too.”

“What the hell is Flex Wash?”

“No idea. But it sounds impressive, right? I should probably read the manual.”

Eli laughs, but it’s a strained little thing.

“You sure you want my clothes in your fancy-ass washer?”

Kent makes a judgmental noise. “Dude. I hang out with hockey players. We are disgusting human beings. Bodily fluids do not bother me.”

“Alright.”

“Hey,” Kent says, “seriously.”

“ _Okay_.”

When they get to Kent’s place, Kent lets valet park his car and everyone stares as they walk into the lobby.

Kent’s ears are beet red by the time they get to the elevator.

“This was just your super sneaky way to get out of wearing that awful outfit, wasn’t it?” He whisper-shouts at Eli. “Did you see their faces? I’m over here still looking like a moron but you look relatively normal. And where the hell is your hat?”

Eli can’t help but laugh, which was probably Kent’s intention.

“Backpack,” he says. “Might be a little crushed.”

“I’ll just have to get you another one.”

“Please don’t.”

Kent grins at him.

Eli smiles, more than a little helplessly, back at him.

“Have you used any of the groceries I left?” he asks. “The butter or—“

“No. I’ve just been eating what’s in the freezer. Well. And protein shakes but that’s not—no. Why?”

“Because. Third date. It’s easier to talk about medical histories if you have cookies to eat afterward.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yup. Speaking from experience.”

“You know that’s not why—“ Kent licks his lips, eyebrows pinched as he holds the elevator door so Eli and Hawke can enter first.

“You don’t actually have to tell me. If you don’t want to.”

Eli shrugs. “You should know the basics anyway, in case—if we’re going to keep hanging out.”

“Well we are, so.”

“Okay then,” Eli says.

“Okay then,” Kent agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captains Log:
> 
> 1\. This chapter got a little out of hand length-wise and I'm not 100% happy with it, but here it is.  
> 2\. I sold my house! Or I accepted an offer anyway. They are paying cash with a 30 day close so I will be moving the first week of September now which is...over a month sooner than I expected. I should like. Start packing and selling things, probably.  
> 3\. Back-to-school faculty stuff starts this week and classes begin the 21st. I'm so excited!


	8. Chapter 8

Kent is a professional hockey player. More than that, he’s a comparatively _small_ professional hockey player. He’s 5’ 10” and 180 pounds and he’s widely hated by like…a good percentage of the NHL. He gets hit a lot. Mostly by people who are bigger than him, some of them a _lot_ bigger—honestly, what are they feeding the Russians these days?— which is a pretty constant source of stress.

But nothing in his twenty years of life has ever been quite as nerve-wracking as sitting uselessly at a five-star restaurant in parachute pants and a floral blazer while his—while Eli—is off in some back room apparently having a goddamn seizure.

A _seizure_.

Which. Eli had seemed so calm about it but. Seizures are a big deal. Seizures are scary. Seizures _kill_ people.

He calls Jeff because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“Hey kid, why are you calling me in the middle of your date? That’s rude as hell.”

“Eli is having a seizure,” Kent says, because tact has never been his strong suit. “And I’m freaking out.”

“What the fuck? Why are you calling me? Call an ambulance.”

“No—that’s not. Apparently its normal? For him? Hawke started whining and shit and then he was like, ‘oh hey, I’m gunna go have a seizure now, no big deal, see you later’ and then he just _left_ to some back room and I—Fuck. Should I be telling you this? Am I like, violating his privacy? Jeff. I’m freaking out.”

“You are, a little bit. Deep breath, okay?”

“Okay.”

Jeff pauses for a minute.

“That wasn’t a deep breath. That wasn’t even like, _a_ breath. Work with me, Kenny.”

“Oh. Right.”

Kent breathes.

“Okay, good. So. Eli probably has epilepsy or something. If Hawke is trained to detect seizures this is pretty normal for them and you’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

“ _Seizures are a big deal_ ,” Kent says, probably louder than is necessary.

He hunches over the table a little and takes another breath.

“What do I do?”

“What did he tell you to do?”

“To wait here. For him to get back.”

“Then that’s what you do.”

“What about after? Do I take him home? Or like, the hospital? Or—“

“I don’t know,” Jeff says patiently. “You should probably ask him that when he gets back.”

“Right.”

Jeff sighs.“ He might not want to stay at the restaurant, but don’t assume that. Let him call the shots.”

“Okay.”

“But make it clear that you’re cool with this—because you _are_ , right?”

The question sounds a little like a threat.

“So cool,” Kent says faintly.

“Good. Make it clear that if he wants to go home he can but you still want to spend more time with him tonight. Maybe offer to take him to your place. But don’t be insulted if he just wants to call it a night either.”

“Okay. Yeah.”

“Listen, I’m at the movie theater with Alex, do you want me to stay on the phone with you until he’s back or are you good?”

“I’m—good. Yeah. Sorry for freaking out. Get back to your wife.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me know how it goes. And if you need anything else, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks. Bye.”

Kent hangs up and spins his phone mindlessly on the table.

He presses the home button and sighs.

It’s only been five minutes.

***

When they get to Kent’s apartment, Kent shows Eli how to work the washing machine and then ushers him directly into the master bathroom where Kent shoves a towel into Eli’s hands and then tries to explain his admittedly ridiculous shower. There’s six different wall-mounted nozzles as well as a rain-emulating thing in the ceiling, and the hot and cold adjustment handles, as aesthetically pleasing as they are, don’t make much logical sense.

It’s a bit much.

He’ll admit that.

He leaves Eli, who is definitely judging him, but at least doing it quietly, in the already steam-filled bathroom and goes to pick out a pair of shorts and the softest T-shirt he can find because. Well. He wants Eli to be comfortable. He might intentionally pick a shirt that’s a little big on him because he knows it will look even bigger on Eli and the idea of that is…compelling. He agonizes a little over whether or not he should give him underwear too and throws in a pair of black boxer briefs that he got from a Diesel photoshoot a few months back. They shrunk in the wash so they’ll actually probably fit Eli perfectly which _he will not continue to think about._

Kent knocks on the bathroom door, opens it a few inches to put the clothes on the floor inside, and then returns to the kitchen to transfer their boxed food to plates.

Kit joins him on the countertop and unashamedly begs for attention.

“You need to be extra nice to Eli today, okay?” Kent says seriously, running his knuckles down the curve of her arched spine. “He’s had a seizure. Which is bad. And we like him, so we need him to feel like, welcome and safe and shit, alright?”

Kit appears to agree but he gives her a little bit of fat from the edge of his steak just to make sure she’s in a good mood.

He brings their plates and utensils into the living room because sitting on the couch will be more comfortable than the bar stools and it had seemed like Eli’s balance was a little off so bar stools probably aren’t a good idea anyway.

Then, out of things to do, he sits down on the couch, adjusts the silverware a little on the coffee table, and waits.

He’s not very good at waiting.

He turns on the TV to SportsCenter, then immediately turns it off because he doesn’t want it to seem like he’s avoiding talking to Eli or something. But Eli isn’t even in the room, so he turns it back on, absorbs absolutely nothing for several minutes, and then turns it off again the minute he hears the bathroom door open.

Eli is preceded by Hawke, who makes herself at home on the rug under the window, and then Eli moves into the living room and Kent—Kent did not adequately prepare himself for this. For Eli with damp ringlet hair and a pink flush to his dark skin from the heat of Kent’s ridiculous shower.

He looks so soft and unassuming that it feels like a personal attack.

“Your shower is ridiculous,” Eli says.

He sits down next to Kent and he smells like Kent’s shampoo.

It somehow smells a whole hell of a lot better on Eli.

“It is,” Kent agrees.

“I kind of want to marry it, though. Can that be part of our deal? I cook you food in exchange for shower privileges?”

Kent swallows.

“Yes.”

Eli purses his lips, studying Kent and Kent suddenly wonders if he looks awkward, clutching the TV remote in one hand, sitting a careful distance between the middle of the sofa and the edge, trying to leave enough space for Eli to sit without it looking like he’s trying to avoid like, touching him or something. He doesn’t even know.

He tries to be less awkward without actually changing anything about his position and from the look on Eli’s face fails miserably.

“Are you okay?” Eli asks.

“Am _I_ —“ Kent lets out a breath through his nose. “I’m fine. I’m just—are _you_ okay? Because maybe this is normal for you and I don’t want to make a big deal out of it if—but I was kind of scared out of my mind waiting for you to come back at the restaurant and now… I’m trying to be cool because I don’t want you to feel weird but I don’t know—“

“Hey,” Eli says, “whoa.”

And that’s—that’s Eli’s hand on his knee.

“Sorry,” Kent says, slumping a little.

He scoops Kit up from the back of the couch and repositions her in his lap so he’ll stop squeezing the remote and won’t try to do something stupid like hold Eli’s hand instead.

Eli looks like he’s trying not to smile too widely at him.

“Thank you,” he says, squeezing his knee a little.

“For what?”

“You were worried about me.”

“Um, yeah?”

“That’s—nice.”

“Okay?”

“It is! And you handled things pretty well. Except for being rude to the waitress. I mean. Snapping your fingers at her? Really?”

“I didn’t—okay, yeah, I did do that. I uh, tipped her really well?”

“That helps.”

Kit repositions herself in such a way that she can butt her head against Eli’s wrist. He lets go of Kent’s knee to pet her.

“Hey, sweet thing,” he murmurs, soft and a little reverent, “finally decided we’re friends?” and Kent cannot _handle_ this.

“So.” Kent says, maybe a little desperately. “Food?”

“Food,” Eli agrees.

They eat in companionable silence, watching with amusement as Hawke slowly ooches her way across the floor, a little army-crawl at a time, until she’s curled between their feet with a hopeful expression. She doesn’t beg, but makes it very clear she’s available and amenable to sharing if they are. Kent is sorely tempted but doesn’t know if feeding her people food is allowed or not.

“So,” Eli says eventually, leaning forward to put his plate on the coffee table. “Two years ago I was in a really bad car accident. I was hospitalized for several months. Had a couple surgeries. Broken ribs, ruptured spleen, TBI. Uh, that’s—traumatic brain injury.”

“Fuck,” Kent says.

“Yeah. It sucked. I’m good now mostly, but the TBI has some pretty shitty lasting effects. Like balance issues and memory problems, or like minor aphasia when I get really stressed.”

“Like seizures?” Kent asks.

“And like seizures,” Eli agrees.

“Are they—will they ever stop or—?”

“Maybe. Probably not. Doctors aren’t really sure. Brains are pretty weird and kind of unpredictable, I’ve learned. And mine is still healing.”

“What causes your seizures?”

“Also unsure. I usually have one or two a month, completely unprovoked, but if I’m really emotional or stressed or overheated that can prompt one too. That’s why I have the handicap parking tag—because something as minor as walking two blocks in Vegas heat could induce one.”

“Fuck,” Kent says again. “I’m sorry. I’m _so_ sorry—“

“Hey, no, that’s not—I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad again, I know you weren’t being malicious or anything—“

“Still. I shouldn’t have—“

“Yes, I know. But we’ve moved on, okay?”

“Okay.”

Kent considers going and downing himself in his stupid shower because he is the literal worst and Eli is being way too nice to him.

“Anyway,” Eli says, “I got Hawke once I was out of the hospital. I actually wasn’t supposed to get a dog until this year because of the waiting list, but—well that’s a different story—but I got her only a few months after applying. Between her and my medication it’s not so bad.”

Kent reaches down to pet Hawke without thinking, then jerks back his hand. “Sorry, is it ok to—“

“Oh, yeah, totally. When the vest is off she’s just a dog. She’ll still alert for me as long as she’s not distracted, but she’s free game for petting, absolutely.”

Kent doesn’t have to be told twice.

Kit isn’t particularly pleased by this development and retreats to her former position on the back of the couch, closer to Eli than Kent.

Kent rolls his eyes at her and smoothes the fur over Hawke’s eyebrows with his thumbs.

He tries to tell her telepathically that she’s a very good dog and he’s happy Eli has her. She blinks knowingly at him.

“So,” he say. “How does that work, with the skating? If heat is a problem. Doesn’t any kind of physical activity put you at risk?”

“Sort of? There’s a threshold, and I’m getting better at telling where it is. And, well, figure skating is one of the best possible sports I could be part of, honestly. It’s a lot easier to cool down in an ice rink, and stave off getting over heated to begin with, than it is on like…a football field or something.”

His lopsided grin fades a bit.

“I wasn’t able to skate for almost a year initially. Between the balance issues and the surgery recovery and stuff,” he pushes one palm, gentle, against his belly, and Kent has to resist the urge to cover it with his own hand, to pull up Eli’s shirt and get to the skin underneath it so he can—what, he doesn’t know—make sure Eli is alright now? How would Kent even tell?

“That’s why I’m behind,” Eli says. “Why I’m here. I had a spot to compete at Worlds when I was fifteen but the accident happened two months before and now—I still haven’t managed to get back to the competitive level I was at then. Might not ever.”

Kent can’t imagine that: losing skating. Losing hockey. Losing…his identity. It’s one of his worst fears, one of the few things that gives him nightmares. What if he gets hurt? What if he’s not good enough? What if he can’t live the only future he’s spent the entirety of his past preparing for?

“I’m sorry,” Kent says, and it seems woefully inadequate.

Eli shrugs. “I’m still recovering. Still improving. I’m not giving up yet.”

“Good.”

It’s quiet for a moment and Kent gives Hawke one final pet before leaning back into the couch.

“Can I ask, like, what happens? When you have a seizure.”

“Oh. Well there’s a lot of different kinds, obviously.”

Kent raises a self-deprecating eyebrow.

“Or,” Eli corrects himself. “I guess _not_ obviously for most people. The kind I get are called tonic-clonic seizures which is basically where I lose consciousness for a minute or two and have muscle contractions. It’s—it’s pretty scary to watch but it doesn’t hurt or anything as long as I’m ready for it.”

“Tonic-clonic,” Kent repeats.

“Hawke usually lets me know about ten minutes before I have one. Then I get somewhere safe, lay down, and she makes sure I don’t hurt myself while I’m out of it. A minute or so after I wake up again I’m usually good to go, sometimes with a headache. I don’t usually—“ he grimaces and starts again. “They’re usually not as bad as today.”

Kent bites his lip. “Is that. Something to be concerned about?”

“No. Not unless I have several bad ones in a row.”

“Okay.”

The washing machine beeps and Eli goes to switch his clothes into the dyer. Hawke stays with Kent, but she lifts her head to keep Eli in her sight, craning her neck a little when he turns the corner.

“He’ll be right back,” Kent says.

She is not reassured.

When Eli returns a minute later, he settles on the couch closer to Kent than he had been before.

“Any other questions?” he asks.

“What do I do?” Kent says. “Like. If this happens again.”

Eli shrugs. “Mostly what you did today. Wait for me. Take me home if I want. Maybe skip the slight panicking. But that was admittedly my fault. It wasn’t fair to spring that on you.”

“Okay. What are they called again? The kind of seizures you have?”

“Tonic-clonic.”

He repeats that several times to himself. He’ll need to google it after Eli leaves.

“So we’re cool?” Eli asks.

Kent blinks at him.

“Yes? I mean. Yeah. Of course.”

“Cool. So.”

Eli claps his hands together, looking pleased, if a little embarrassed.

“Medical history portion of date three is over. You ready for cookies? Or do you have something to contribute to tonight’s heart-to-heart? Any personal revelations? Deep dark secrets to share?”

And Kent—

He doesn’t mean to. Not really. Because Eli is clearly joking and not actually expecting him to answer but he can’t help it.

He just.

Says it.

“I’m gay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoomp there it is
> 
> Captains log:  
> The first day of classes is Monday! I'm starting the selling/packing of household shit process for my move in 2.5 weeks, while also preparing for the Velocity conference in DC from Sept. 1-3. I'll be speaking on a panel about YA fantasy and sci-fi for girls as the comics/graphic novels "specialist" (no pressure) that Saturday. If you're going to be there by any chance, let me know! I love meeting strangers from the internet.


	9. Chapter 9

Eli has never actually been punched in the face before. It’s something he’s pretty proud of considering he grew up gay in rural Georgia but this—

Eli imagines this is a little like what it would feel like.

Maybe not punched in the face, though. Maybe more like his chest. Right down the center. Where there’s a knotted line of scar tissue that he rubs with shea butter every night.

Eli swallows, standing.

“If that’s supposed to be a joke it’s not very funny.”

And Kent. Kent looks devastated.

“It’s not,” he says. “I’m— _I am_. I swear.”

Eli sits back down.

“Fuck,” Kent says.“I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to tell you until later but you just like, bared your soul to me or whatever and I felt like I needed to, uh, reciprocate?And then you said— and I know you were joking, but I knew you’d be cool with it and I’d imagined like, a thousand different ways I could tell you but not once was I afraid you would take it badly, you know? Which is new. For me. So I guess I just kinda jumped the gun a little. And you can't tell anyone--well, unless you wanted to tell Eric, I guess--but he definitely couldn't tell anyone. I don’t even know what I’m—”

Eli realizes he’s not the only one in something of a panic spiral.

“Kent,” he interrupts. “Kent. Hey.”

“Yes. Hi.”

“Hi. Take a deep breath, maybe?”

Kent takes a deep breath.

Eli does too for good measure.

“Sorry, I’m just going to need a minute.”

“That’s fine,” Kent says, subdued, and Eli closes his eyes because he is doing this all wrong but he really does need a minute because _Kent Fucking Parson,_ number one draft pick, youngest captain in the NHL, and last years league point leader— _yes, okay, Eli has been paying closer attention to that kind of shit lately_ —has just come out to him.

“You do realize,” Eli says, a few moments later, eyes still closed, “how ridiculous it is that we’ve been on three dates and the fact that you’re gay is a revelation.”

“Uh. Yeah,” Kent agrees tentatively. “That did cross my mind.”

“So,” Eli straitens. “Were you—were those _actual_ dates? Because I thought,” he takes a breath. “I thought you were just being nice to me. Friendly. Like. Oh, big sports star, charmed by the sarcastic kid with the service dog. And then you realized you actually liked hanging out with me because of my stunning personality or whatever. Which, that’s fine, but—“

“I don’t know,” Kent interrupts, voice a little too loud, a little thready.

“You—how can you _not know_?”

Kent gestures wordlessly, making an uncertain noise in the back of his throat. “I knew _you_ didn’t think they were real, but I just—I liked you and I wanted to be your friend and the whole ‘three dates’ thing was an opportunity to spend more time with you.”

He runs a hand through his hair.

“And I’d never actually been on a date before. And I liked—I liked the idea. Of that. With you. Even though I knew it wasn’t real.”

Eli leans back against the couch and closes his eyes again because that makes things easier, before opening them and sitting right back up.

“What do you mean, you’ve never been on a date before?”

Kent lifts one shoulder. “I haven’t. I’ve known since I was twelve I was gay and by then I also knew I was probably going to end up playing professional hockey and I couldn’t—there aren’t any out NHL players.”

“So you just—you’ve never been in a relationship?”

The idea of twelve-year-old Kent quietly accepting that he would never get a normal romantic adolescence makes something in Eli’s chest clench. Possibly because it’s a little too familiar.

Kent worries his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Once. In juniors. We were both players, though, both headed for the draft. So we had to keep it a secret. And I don’t—I don’t know if we actually were.”

“If you actually were what?”

“In a relationship. Together. _I_ thought we were, but he—“

Kent pauses.

The pause turns into silence.

He shrugs, clearly not sure how to finish, and Eli has never felt so compelled to hug someone.

“That sucks,” he says. “I mean. That’s really terrible.”

Kent shrugs again.

“After I was drafted by the Aces I went out to clubs a couple times. Uh. Gay clubs. Just for hookups. But then one time someone recognized me and it almost—I decided it wasn’t worth it,after that. Especially when the Aces gave me the captaincy. It was just too risky to go out anymore. It would jeopardize the whole team if someone went to the media.”

Eli doesn’t even know how to respond to that.

“So—what—you’re just going to stay in the closet until you retire?”

Kent laughs without humor. “That’s the plan.”

“That’s a _terrible_ plan. You won’t retire for—“

“Hopefully at least another decade. Maybe two if I’m lucky.”

“And you’ll just be alone. Until you’re nearly forty or—or an injury forces you out sooner?Hockey can’t be worth that.”

“Look, I don’t expect you to understand—“

“Shit. I’m sorry. I mean. I really, really don’t understand but that’s your choice. I shouldn’t like. Judge you. For that. Sorry.”

They both fall silent.

“Have _you_?” Kent asks after a moment.

“Have I what?”

“Ever been in a relationship?”

Eli snorts, more than a little inelegantly. “No.”

Kent appears genuinely surprised by this information.

“But you’re out.”

“Yeah, and up until two weeks ago I was living in a tiny town in Georgia. Eric is literally the only other gay person I’ve ever met in real life.”

Eli startles. “Well. Until you, I guess,” he amends.

“Oh. Right. And you never—with Eric?”

“God no. We kissed each other the night before we both left for college but—“

Whatever face he makes must indicate exactly how uninterested Eli is in recreating the experience because Kent laughs.

“Not good?”

“I dunno.The kiss itself was okay, I guess? Not that I have any comparative data. But Eric is definitely not my type and more like a brother than anything else. Besides, he’s not out and I couldn’t—I don’t think I could do that. Be someone’s secret.”

“Oh.”

“I, uh. I’m going to join the GSA, though, I think. The first meeting of the semester is next week. So. Maybe I’ll meet someone there.”

“GSA?” Kent asks.

“Gay Straight Alliance.”

Kent nods, mouth a little pinched.

“Well. Let me know if you need any date ideas. I’ve done research.”

Eli thinks Kent is trying to be funny but the delivery isn’t quite right.

He wants to ask the initial question again—or maybe amend it: _did you want them to be real dates?_ But even if the answer is yes, he can’t—he won’t go back in the closet. And Kent can’t come out.

“So,” Eli says, and then stalls.

“So,” Kent agrees.

“Just. To make sure I’m clear. You still want to hang out?”

It feels embarrassingly trite, phrasing it like that.

“ _Yes_ ,” Kent says. “Please.”

“Okay. Well. Good.”

Eli curls his bare toes into the shag of Kent’s rug, uncertain how to proceed. “Do you want to make some cookies now?”

“Also yes.”

“Alright, then,” Eli says, standing to collect their empty plates. “Go wash your hands and we’ll get started.”

“I just washed my hands before we ate.”

“And then you pet both Kit and Hawke.”

Kent stretches, standing to follow him. “If I’m just watching I don’t need clean hands anyway.”

“If you want to _eat_ any of the cookies, you’re not just watching.”

Kent grins a little crookedly at the ice in Eli’s tone. “Why don’t I go wash my hands?”

“Good plan.”

***

Eli expects that things will be weird, after that night. They make cookies and eat too many and stay up later than they should, and things are fine. But after Kent has dropped him off at his dorm, Eli doesn’t know what to expect. Because there’s definitely something there, he thinks. Something between them. And the knowledge that nothing will happen doesn’t particularly dampen his interest in spending time with Kent, but he doesn’t know if it’s mutual or not and—well. He thinks things will be weird.

They aren’t.

He thinks maybe they’ll stop talking as much once the semester begins and regular season games start.

They don’t.

Kent sends him sporadic texts throughout the day, Jeff sends pictures of Kent sleeping in increasingly contorted and unattractive positions, and Eli gets used to facetiming Kent whenever the Aces are on the road—layovers, bus-loadings, etc. because apparently he really is a significant annoyance when forced to sit still in one place for an extended amount of time.

Eli uses Kent’s kitchen at least once a week, filming for the youtube channel but also making sure Kent has diet-approved meals for dinner every night in the freezer. Sometimes Kent is there, sometimes he isn’t. Sometimes Jeff is there too.

He also has the email of the Aces’ nutritionist, Sonja, now.

By October, he and Kent have cultivated a solid friendship through insults, social media, private ice time, food, and violently discordant opinions on Game of Thrones. They have something of a routine. A solid friendship that rivals all other interpersonal relationships he has apart from Eric's. It’s comfortable.

And then, in October, Kent goes down in overtime in a dumpster-fire of a game against the Stars.

It’s a blatantly vicious cross-check by Pavel that ends with Kent helmet-less and face-down on the ice, trying to get to his knees under his own power and failing. He has to be carried off by Mashkov and Rushkin, a swarm of trainers blocking the camera’s view of his bowed head.

Pavel gets five minutes in the box and Eli gets in his car.

He knows he can’t go to the arena, but he also knows that Kent will fight tooth and nail to go home unless a hospital stay is absolutely required.

So he goes to the grocery store, and then he goes to Kent’s apartment.

Jeff calls him as he’s chopping tomatoes.

“Hey, kid,” he says tiredly. “Were you watching the game?”

“Yeah, is he—“

“He’ll be fine. His neck is a little jacked up and he’s got a minor concussion. Couple weeks off, maybe more. But he’ll be fine. We’re going to be here for another hour or so but they’re letting him go home tonight if you—“

“I’m already at his place.”

Jeff laughs, soft, maybe a little fond. “Alright. I’ll text you when we’re on our way.”

Eli finishes the casserole, sets the timer on the oven, puts on a Hozier record, and opens his history textbook.

Two hours later, when he’s dozing on the couch, there’s a commotion in the hallway and, after a longer-than-usual pause, the door opens.

Hawke sits up.

Kit streaks across the kitchen to perch on the refrigerator and yowl at the intruders.

Alexei Mashkov enters first with Kent’s bag and what looks like several prescription bottles and paperwork.

“Oh,” he says, seeing Eli and breaking into a smile. “Hi.”

Mashkov shouldn’t really be handsome. His nose is too big for his face, his mouth too wide, but between his pretty brown eyes,straight—probably fake—teeth, and generally ridiculous height, Eli finds himself grinning a little helplessly back at the man.

“Hi,” Eli says.

Mashkov points at him with one gigantic finger. “You! You little Youtube cook. You talk to Kenny on the plane so he's not annoy everyone. You skate like Jeff—but best now.”

“Okay,” Jeff intercedes from the doorway, hovering behind a slow-moving Kent. “Eli _figure_ skates better than me now, not like, skates better than me in general.”

“Is what I mean,” Mashkov says consolingly. “English is hard.”

“Bullshit,” Jeff mutters.

_“Eli?”_ Kent says, clearly a little drugged, as Jeff herds him toward the couch. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m—I thought you might like some company tonight after that hit. I even got the recipe for Eric’s Moomaw’s ‘get well soon’ casserole and tweaked it a little so Sonja doesn’t kill me. It’s in the oven.”

“I’m injured,” Kent says grumpily, “Not sick.”

“You better be appreciative of my efforts or I’ll be making a _funeral_ casserole, Mr. Parson.”

Mashkov laughs, delighted.

“I’m not let you kill Kenny,” he says somberly. “I’m need good center and Kenny is best.”

“Well you better tell him to mind his manners then.”

“You mind,” Mashkov repeats to Kent. “Be good. Let Eli take care.”

“Ugh,” Kent says. “You guys are the worst.”

“Best,” Mashkov argues amiably, setting Kent’s various accouterments on the kitchen counter. “I should go, now. See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, man.”

“Bye little cook,” he says, “nice to meet.”

“It’s Eli,” Eli says.

“Tater,” Mashkov answers.

“Tater?”

“Like tater-tot,” he explains, as if that’s an explanation at all. “You know. Little potatoes?”

“Oh god, is that supposed to be a play on your last name?”

“Yes. Rushy make it for me first day, now everybody on team call me Tater.”

“Hockey players are idiots.”

“Yes,” Mashkov—Tater—agrees.

Eli laughs a little.

“Okay, nice to meet you, Tater.”

The Russian leaves and Eli returns his attention to Kent. He’s wearing a mostly-unzipped hoody over melting ice packs saran-wrapped around his shoulders and neck and he looks so exhausted that Eli thinks he might fall asleep at any moment.

“Can you eat? Are you hungry?”

“Yeah,” Jeff answers for him. “He probably should try, at least. He hasn’t had anything since before the game.”

Eli moves to the kitchen to get the plate of casserole from the still-warm oven that he’d saved for exactly that purpose.

He brings it to Kent on a bed tray he’d found in the cabinet by the cat food and sets it gingerly over his lap.

“Is that—“

“It’s fine,” Kent sighs. “Thanks.”

Eli watches as he takes a bite, arm moving gingerly, not moving his neck at all, and jumps when Jeff nudges him with an elbow.

“I was going to stay the night with him but if you’ve got that” he nods to Eli’s backpack and duffel bag leaning against the entryway wall “I’ll just come back first thing tomorrow. Is that your plan?”

“Yeah. I mean. I can. If that’s okay. I brought my stuff, just in case.

“When’s your first class tomorrow?”

“Not until eleven.”

“No practice?”

“Not on Thursdays. I have an optional ballet class at nine but I’ve yet to miss one this semester so it’s fine if I don’t go.”

“You do ballet?” Kent interrupts. He’s holding his fork half-way to his mouth and looks like maybe his brain has just short-circuited.

“Yeah? Not at a super high level or anything, but it’s good for figure skaters. I go to a class through the dance school two times a week on the mornings we don’t have skate.”

Kent makes a pained noise.

“That’s cool,” he says weakly.

“Kenny loves ballet,” Jeff says conspiratorially. “He went to The Nutcracker four times in three different cities last year.”

“I hate you,” Kent says.

Eli is charmed.

“Anyway,” Jeff continues, “I’ll come back around ten tomorrow so you have time to go back and get ready for class, cool?”

“Works for me.”

“Alright,”

Jeff bends to give Kent a gentle, smacking, kiss on the top if his head and then retreats to the kitchen.

“There’s a list of his meds and when he can take them here,” he tells Eli, smoothing out a piece of paper. “He can’t go sleep for another three hours but after that he can stay asleep as long as he wants so you don’t need to wake him up through the night or anything. Any blurred vision, nausea, forgetfulness—well, you know the drill probably—call his neurologist. Her number is also here.”

Eli takes the paper from Jeff.

“Okay. Anything else?”

“Uh. No screen time for 48 hours and he has to sleep on his back.”

Kent makes a despairing noise.

“Which he’s going to be a giant baby about.”

“No kidding.”

“Anyway, let me know if you need anything.”

“Will do.”

Jeff leaves and Eli returns the paperwork to the counter, turns off the kitchen lights, dims the living room lights, and then joins Kent on the couch.

“Hey,” he says, settling slowly, careful not to jostle him.

“Hey.”

“So that was a pretty terrible hit.”

“Yeah.”

“Probably a dumb question, but are you okay?”

“I’m—I don’t know.”

Eli wishes he hadn’t dimmed the lights quite so much. He can’t really tell what Kent’s face is doing under the soft water-color bleed of neon from the window.

“It was scary,” Kent says. “I’d never—I couldn't get up. I was trying but I just. Couldn’t. That’s never happened before.”

“Yeah. It’s pretty terrifying when your body won’t listen to your brain. Feels kinda like you're trapped.”

Kent meets his eyes. “Exactly.”

“Better now? Or are you still processing.”

“Still processing, I think.”

“That’s allowed.”

Kent pushes a little at the tray and Eli moves it off his lap and onto the coffee table.

He hasn’t even eaten half of the casserole slice but Eli figures that’s better than nothing.

“Do you want some water? Maybe some gatorade?”

“No. I already drank two at the hospital.”

“Alright. Can I get you anything else?”

“No. Just. Can you—”

He reaches toward Eli without turning his head, finds Eli’s forearm and trails his fingers down to circle his wrist, calluses light but rough against the thin skin beneath Eli’s palms.

He pulls, just a little, and Eli goes.

He settles in the cup of space between Kent’s arm and his ribcage, leaning against Kent carefully, in increments, unsure of how much of his weight Kent can take without it becoming uncomfortable. Kent’s outside forearm moves to circle his waist, pulling him closer, hand spread against his abdomen, and then they go still, pressed together in the semi-darkness, the damp of melting ice and silence between them.

Kent exhales.

“Thank you.”

“Whatever you need,” Eli says, and then pauses, realizing he means it.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he reminds Kent. “Not yet.”

“Talk to me then.”

“About what?”

“Anything.”

“Well.” Eli considers for a moment. “I’ve got some serious beef with my history professor’s lecture from Monday.”

Kent laughs and Eli can feel it under his ear.

“Is this the ancient civilizations class? With the old white dude?”

“Yup.”

“Tell me about it,” Kent says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RE Eli's ability to drive despite having epilepsy (since I don't know if I'll ever explain it in-text and people are probably wondering):
> 
> In most states, you currently have to be seizure-free for anywhere from 3-12 months in order to maintain a license. There are exceptions to this if you have a doctor's petition RE extenuating circumstances impacting the safety/ability of the individual to drive and I know there has also been (yet unpassed) discussion of allowing individuals with service dogs who can prove a reliable alert within a set time minimum pre-event to maintain a license through this exception process. For the sake of this story, pretend Eli has this accommodation. 
> 
> TL;DR Eli driving is probably illegal in real-life (though I could be wrong--let me know if I am!) but in his world it is permissible due to a recent chance in policy.
> 
>  
> 
> Captain's log:
> 
> I have two presentations due next week, leave for DC Friday and will be conferencing all weekend, and then move to my new place the following Friday. I'll do my best to have another chapter posted by next weekend but we shall see. It's probably not likely.


	10. Chapter 10

Eli manages to complain about his history professor for nearly an hour, which is impressive considering that he really doesn’t have _that much_ beef with him. But it’s easy to exaggerate and he keeps Kent giggling and awake which was the goal. Well. Awake was the goal. The giggling is a definite bonus, though. Because Kent wrinkles his nose when he laughs and apparently Eli has a thing for adorably scrunched up freckled noses.

“I mean,” Eli says, voice a little rough. “I _am_ learning from his lectures, I just feel like he takes every opportunity to ignore or blatantly excise mentioning any kind of non-heterosexual relationships that any prominent historical figures had—even like, the pretty widely accepted ones.”

Kent makes an encouraging noise.

“Like,” Eli continues, “why can’t we talk about the fact that Alexander the Great had a boyfriend and his love language was apparently promoting him? Why is this professor so afraid of the historical gays, you know?”

“Who wouldn’t be afraid of Alexander the Great?” Kent says sleepily. “He’s one of the most merciless conquerers in history.”

“Okay that’s a fair point but definitely not what I meant, as I’m sure you’re aware.” Eli pauses. “Wait. You know who Alexander the Great is?”

Kent opens his eyes, shifting a little so he can frown at Eli. “I _read.”_

“I know that.”

“We spend a lot of time on buses and planes and history is interesting, okay?”

And Kent…Kent seems genuinely upset. It’s hard to take him seriously since his hair is a mess and his eyes are all pupil and kind of bleary from the meds, but Eli manages a placating, “Okay, sorry, jeez. I know you’re not some dumb hockey robot.”

“Good.”

It goes quiet for several long seconds.

“My ex was really into history,” Kent says a minute later—a little hesitant, awkward after the extended silence. “I got in the habit of picking up historical novels and biographies and stuff in airports so we’d have something to talk about on roadies and never really quit. So. It’s a habit now.”

Which. That’s actually incredibly sweet. And more than a little sad.

Eli doesn’t know how to respond to that but he doesn’t have to because Kit gets up from where she’s been sitting on the coffee table and stalks purposefully over to where Hawke is laying at their feet, jumps lightly onto her back, and settles in a little cat-loaf between her shoulder and bent elbow.

Hawke looks relatively baffled.

As do Kent and Eli.

Hawke picks up her head, sniffing gently in Kit’s direction which gets her a bat on the nose and a quiet hiss.

Hawke drops her chin back onto her feet, bemused, watching Kit out of the corner of her eye.

After a few minutes, when Kit’s sleepy blinks have turned into actual napping, Hawke slowly relocates her nose so that it’s laid lengthwise against, and just barely touching, Kit’s side.

She glances up at Kent and Eli, looking pleased with herself.

“I don’t think it counts if Kit is asleep,” Eli says.

Hawke doesn’t seem overly bothered by this.

Kent sighs, a strange expression on his face, and then winces.

“New ice packs?” Eli asks.

“Yeah, probably.”

Eli unwraps him as gently as possible, noticing the goosebumps and chill of his skin beneath the hoodie.

“Cold?” he asks inanely.

Kent huffs out a laugh. “Yeah.”

“Would—do you think a warm bath would help instead? With Epsom salts? And then you can ice again after?”

That’s one of the things Eli most misses from home, aside from Eric. Epsom salt baths were a near-daily part of his required recovery and, until he’d moved into the dorms—with only shower stalls— he’d still had at least one bath a week. He wonders if he and Kent are at a point in their friendship where he can ask to come borrow his bathtub. If they’re not already he thinks they probably will be after tonight.

Kent makes a grumpy noise that is weirdly adorable. “That would be nice, but I don’t think I can lean back in a bath right now. I’m not supposed to be anything but upright or flat on my back.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

Eli stands in the kitchen, hands full of mostly-melted ice packs and doesn’t know what to do. At least that eliminates the emotional trial of helping Kent get in the bath—something that would likely be fraught with badly suppressed arousal and a fair amount of guilt.

“A hot shower would be nice, though,” Kent says slowly. “I didn’t get a chance after the game so I feel pretty disgusting. I’ll need help, though.

“Oh.”

“Not that—Swoops can help me tomorrow, it’s not a big deal if you’re not comfortable—“

“No, it’s—“ _completely, horribly, unfair._ “I don’t mind. That’s fine. I’m just afraid I’ll hurt you.”

Which, hey, maybe that will maybe help with the arousal if he’s terrified the whole time of breaking the top-scoring center in the NHL.

“I trust you,” Kent says quietly, and Eli has to turn and drop the ice packs in the sink before he says something stupid in response.

***

There isn’t actually anything sexually fraught about helping Kent shower. Because Kent is in pain and Eli isn’t a sadist.The only thing Eli feels while slowly getting Kent settled on the bench in the stupidly complicated shower is an aching second-hand discomfort and a relatively desperate, fruitless, desire to take Kent’s pain himself somehow. Because Eli is used to being in pain, he has a lot of practice, and, granted, Kent probably does too because he’s a hockey player but—well. He doesn’t know where he’s going with that. He wishes, nonetheless.

And then Kent makes him adjust the water temperature sixteen times, and complains about the method Eli uses to shampoo his hair and then when he does it the way Kent wants instead, Kent complains about soap in his eyes which is _why Eli had done it the first way to begin with_ and by the time the whole showering ordeal is over, the only thing Eli is feeling is frustration.

_“_ I’m sorry,” Kent says, naked and bedraggled, sitting stiffly on the teak bench next to the tub while Eli finds him some clothes.

“I know I’m terrible when I’m injured and you’re being—you’re being really nice and I’m treating you like shit even though you should be home studying or—fuck, I don’t even know what time it is—sleeping, probably. Instead of here dealing with me. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not going to say it’s okay, because it’s not. But I understand you’re in a lot of pain right now,” Eli says diplomatically.

“Yeah,” Kent murmurs and he’s so damn pitiful that Eli forgives him entirely.

“Here,” Eli says, kneeling with a pair of Kent’s boxers and judiciously ignoring the fact that it puts his face at dick-level. “One foot at a time, okay? Don’t look down if it hurts to, I’ll—just—right foot first—good—and now—nice.”

He slides them up over Kent’s knees, then helps him stand and pulls them the rest of the way, smoothing his thumbs over the elastic band to flatten it.

Kent’s skin is warm from the shower. Warm and tan and surprisingly hairless and— _nope. Refocus_.

“You want to bother with anything else or is this good? I’ve got some sweats and another zip-up hoody but if you just want to get in bed—“

“No, this is fine.”

He sways a little and Eli wraps a steadying arm around him.

“Okay, bed then.”

Kent is miserable—or, even more miserable—by the time they get him lying flat on his back in bed.

His hair is in the awkward phase between wet and dry and has gone fluffy and wild. Eli is pretty sure he would hate it if he knew. Kent seems to constantly be at war with his hair.

“Ice packs?” Eli asks.

Kent makes a noise that could mean anything.

“Right. Well I need to go put the others back in the freezer anyway, so I’ll grab a few new ones while I’m there. Anything else you need?”

Kent makes a noise that is probably negative.

Eli resists the urge to roll his eyes.

He tucks new ice packs around Kent’s shoulders, tidies up the kitchen, packs his books back up in his bag and then makes a trip to his car to retrieve Hawke’s travel bag of food.

By the time he’s back upstairs and changed into his pajamas, the alarm on his phone says that Kent only has to stay awake for a few more minutes.

He informs Kent of this quietly, setting a glass of water on the bedside table.

“Umph,” Kent responds.

“You can also take another painkiller now, if you want.”

“Please,” Kent says.

Eli helps him sit up enough to swallow the pill, then deals with Kent’s various forlorn exclamations over the fact that he’s entirely incapable of sleeping on his back so it doesn’t even matter that he doesn’t have to stay awake much longer and he hurts so much that he definitely won’t be able to sleep.

“Eli,” Kent says with mock solemnity. “I think I may be dying.”

“You’re not cute,” Eli says, even though he is. Very cute. Possibly the cutest.

“No,” Kent agrees a little mournfully. “Not right now. Kit is the cute one. And she’s too busy cuddling with your dog to care that I’m dying.”

He has to laugh. And then, because he can’t help himself, he smooths a hand over Kent’s ridiculous hair.

“Seriously, do you need anything else?”

Kent’s exaggerated grimace fades.

“No. I’m ok. Thank you.”

“Okay, well.”

He doesn’t really want to leave, but there’s no reason to stay, either, not unless—

“Can you stay with me? Until—I mean you said I still have a few minutes, right?”

“Oh. Of course. Should I—“ Eli nods toward the bed.

“Yeah. Plenty of room.”

That’s not, actually, entirely true. Kent’s bed is a queen which means that, with Kent arranged in the center, it’s impossible for them not to touch when Eli stretches out carefully beside him. He reaches to turn off the lamp and then the only light is that from the windows—the vegas skyline, lit up in neon.

“What’s your real bucket list?” Kent says, apropos of nothing.

“What?”

“Well you said that going on a date with a hockey player wasn’t really on your bucket list,” Kent says. “What is?”

“Oh.” Eli hasn’t actually thought all that much about it. “I mean. All sorts of things, I guess. I’d like to medal at worlds. Go to the olympics. And I’d like to travel. There’s um, only a couple bioluminescent bays left in the world and it would be cool to see them.”

“Thats big stuff,” Kent says. “What about like. Little things.”

“Little things.”

Eli thinks.

“I’d want a pair of—well. Basically the pair of skates Jeff has. And a whole wardrobe of Ivy Park warmup outfits. And—“ he laughs softly.

“What?” Kent asks.

“Eric and I had this joke, when we started our youtube channel. That if we ever got famous and started generating income through adds, the first thing we would do is buy a pair of Louboutins. So a pair of those, I guess.”

“Louboutins?” Kent repeats. “What’s that?”

“Whats—Jesus, Kent. They’re shoes. Really beautiful shoes. Eric and I wear the same size so we agreed that sharing a pair of obscenely expensive ones would make it—I dunno, acceptable, or something.”

“What’s so great about these shoes?”

“They’re Louboutins,” he repeats a little helplessly, “It’s—it’s stupid. It’s not like we’re ever going to make that kind of money anyway.” He grins sideways at Kent. “Maybe if I keep cooking in your kitchen.”

Kent is frowning seriously at him.

“How much are they?”

“Like a thousand dollars. It’s ridiculous.”

Eli is suddenly uncomfortably aware that this is not, actually a large sum of money for Kent.

“Huh. I don’t think any of the shoes my stylist found even cost that much. What do they look like? Show me a picture.”

“You’re not supposed to have any screen time for forty-eight hours,” Eli reminds him.

“Oh my god,” Kent groans. “ You’re worse than Swoops. Two seconds. That’s all I’m asking.”

Eli decides it’s not a battle worth fighting and pulls his phone out of his pocket. It’s easy enough to find a picture of The Shoes: black platform pumps. Red soles. Gold interior stitching.

He sighs a little as he hands the phone over and Kent—Kent laughs, a little incredulously.

“You want a pair of _women’s shoes_?” he says. “Why?” And the tone—the inflection—mimics so closely the derision he’s come to expect from the kinds of people that like to hurt him that Eli’s stomach immediately goes sour. Because he hadn’t though—it hadn’t even occurred to him that Kent might—but he’s a hockey player. A closeted hockey player. And he probably—

“Fuck,” Kent says, and Eli doesn’t know what his face is doing but apparently it’s not anything good judging by Kent’s expression. “That was really shitty of me. I didn’t—there’s nothing wrong with that, I was just expecting like, fancy high-tops or something.”

“It’s fine,” Eli says, taking back the phone. “I told you it was stupid.”

And it is, but the hollow feeling in his chest hasn’t gone away. Because he doesn’t actually know Kent that well, and this is just a gentle reminder that he needs to stay cautious.

“Hey. Eli.”

Eli licks his lips and glances back up at Kent.

“What?”

“My, um. My therapist says that your first response to something isn’t really your response, it’s society’s response—or like, the way you’ve been trained to respond from your environment? But your second response, after you’ve had a minute to think about, you know, how you actually feel, that’s the one that matters.”

Eli isn’t sure where he’s going with this.

“Okay?”

“So. Can I give you my second response?”

“Yes?”

Kent laboriously holds his hand out and it takes a moment for Eli to understand that he wants to see the picture again. He sighs but gives the phone back to Kent.

“You’re still not supposed to have screen time,” he says, tacit, knowing it will have absolutely zero effect.

Kent studies the phone with furrowed brows, the same way he looks at hockey plays or a pair of near-identical pictures of Kit when he has to pick just one to post to Instagram.

“I like the red bottoms,” Kent says, seriously. “They’re, um. Really nice. Could you actually walk in these, though? Like. What if you twisted your ankle and couldn’t skate?”

Eli is overcome with fondness for a moment.

He clears his throat.

“I’ve practiced. Eric and I can do the entire Single Ladies dance in heels so—“

“Jesus,” Kent says, eyes wide. “Really?”

He seems genuinely impressed.

“Yeah.”

Kent looks back at the phone again, a new, sharper, edge to his admittedly still drug-addled expression.

“Where would you wear them?”

“At home. Cleaning. Cooking. Whatever. It’s not like—I wouldn’t actually wear them out to class or something.”

“Cooking,” Kent repeats. And Kent’s face is—Eli isn’t sure what Kent’s face is doing.

“Cooking here? In my kitchen?”

“I—no? Kent, I’m not _actually_ getting a pair of Louboutins.”

Kent looks like he’s about to argue, but the alarm on Eli’s phone goes off, startling them both, and Eli retrieves it to turn it off.

“You should probably try to sleep now,” Eli says, trying to head off whatever weird direction the previous conversation had been going.

Kent agrees, a little grudgingly, and Eli realizes that his fingers have returned to Kent’s hair and are…well. Petting him. A little.

The realization is embarrassing but clearly Kent doesn’t mind as his eyes are closed and he’s leaning into Eli’s hand. Eli is suddenly, intensely, reminded of Kit and has to take a moment to compose himself.

Within fifteen minutes Kent is dead to the world, breathing slow, the pained wrinkle between his eyebrows smoothed away, and Eli is sleepy enough to consider staying. Kent is warm and solid beside him and Kent wouldn’t mind, he doesn’t think, might even like it, if he stayed.

He could stay. If he wanted.

And that’s the problem.

Eli carefully rolls off the bed and retreats to the guest room.

He doesn’t stay because he wants to just a little too badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm all unpacked and (hopefully!) back to a weekly updating schedule. If you want to see pics of my new place and it's truly ridiculously wonderful view, hit me up on tumblr--I'm also xiaq there. Sorry for the brief hiatus, and thanks for your patience through conferences and moving!


	11. Chapter 11

It starts with an Instagram post.

Jeff’s Instagram post, surprisingly.

It’s not his fault. Jeff wouldn’t even _have_ an Instagram if it wasn’t for the fact that the Ace’s PR department was very insistent that “responsible” players—which really did not help with the mom comments, _could you please lower your voice, Jessica_ —have a strong social media presence. He’d created one because it seemed simple enough to post behind-the scenes shots from practices, selfies with fans, and pictures of his wife with adoring commentary.

He’s boring. He knows that. It’s fine.

As a result, he doesn’t have all that many followers, comparatively, and it is therefore something of a shock when he gets done with practice and finds his phone struggling to accommodate the thousands of notifications he’s received. It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to figure out what’s going on.

He’d posted a set of three pictures shortly after arriving at the igloo—all taken early that morning when he’d arrived to relieve Eli of Kent-duty. The first picture was a selfie with Eli in the kitchen in which Eli looked harried but fond as he tried unsuccessfully to scowl at the camera. He was brandishing a spatula and being generally adorable. The second was a close-up of a breakfast plate—Migas accompanied by cut fruit. The third was Eli and Kent on the couch, backlit by the sunrise out the floor-to-ceiling windows behind them. Kent had a smear of sauce across his cheek and was sticking out his tongue at Eli who held a plate in his lap and a fork suspended in mid-air between them. Eli’s head was thrown back, laughing, the profile of his face, the curve of the narrow column of his throat, a sharp contrast against the watery pastel light of the city behind them. It was an awesome picture, Jeff thought. He’d used a filter and everything.

Apparently the internet agreed.

He’d captioned the photoset “Things we already knew: 1. I am not a good sous chef, 2. @parser90 is a terrible patient, 3. I would kill a man for @elijahrr as long as he keeps cooking for me” and then tagged it #breakfastofchampions #migas #yeschef.

A good portion of the the Aces on Instagram had liked it, if not commented something about feeling left out (Tater). Eli’s friend Eric had commented with a link to a video how-to on migas from nearly two years before suggesting the complainers make their own. Most of the comments, however, were about Eli.

_who is @elijahrr and what do I have to do to get him to cook for me?_

_Where can I get an @elijahrr???_

Or, overwhelming, the third picture in the set.

_Okay but that last pic is disgustingly sweet. I need to go punch a wall now or something to reclaim my masculinity._

_I’m having an emotion about that third picture._

_Oh my god, is @elijahrr feeding @parser90 in that last picture?? I cannot handle the cute._

Jeff turns off his phone feeling a little overwhelmed, then immediately turns it back on to call the team’s PR lady. He doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong, but he’s learned over the years that it’s always best to check.

She gives him the verbal equivalent of a pat on the head and tells him to keep up the good work. He sighs and leaves the facility, trying to figure out how to disable Instagram notifications.

He still hasn’t figured it out by the time he gets back to Kent’s place because there are too many screens and buttons to contend with and technology is the devil and apparently he is just as old and crotchety as his teammates think he is.

Kent is exactly where Jeff left him, sitting awkwardly upright on the couch, scowling fiercely at the black TV.

“I’ve never been this bored in my life,” he complains before Jeff is even fully in the door.

“Hey Kent,” Jeff says amicably. “Practice was good, thanks. My slapshot is really improving and PT said my ankle probably won’t need a second surgery next summer.”

Kent sighs.

“Sorry. I’m grumpy.”

“Yes, you are. Frankly I’m amazed Eli was still willing to cook you breakfast this morning. Either he’s a saint or you’re less of a dick to him than the rest of us, in which case: rude.”

“No,” Kent says. “I was definitely a dick to him too. I apologized, though.”

“Apologized with words?”

“Yes,” Kent says, aggrieved. “Actually used the phrase ‘I’m sorry’ and everything.”

Jeff pretends to wipe a tear from his eye.

“I’m proud of you,” he says seriously. “This is a big step.”

“What do you know about Louboutins?” Kent asks, and it takes Jeff a moment to adjust to the conversational whiplash.

“Uh. You mean the brand?”

“No—well, yes? I mean the shoes. The, uh, high heels.”

“Oh. Well they’re expensive as hell and apparently the shit if you’re into that sort of thing? Alex has a pair. You actually have to send them to a special place to get the red bottoms re-painted every now and then. It’s ridiculous. Worth it, though.”

“Why?”

“Why’s it worth it?”

“Yeah.”

“Well she adores them, for one thing. Also her legs look amazing in them. And her ass. And I can’t think of a single time that she’s worn them where I haven’t gotten laid at the end of the night, so—“

“Positive association?” Kent says dryly.

“Definitely. Why the sudden interest in couture footwear?”

“Where do you buy them? Like. Can I just order them online?”

Jeff leaves his bag on the counter and moves into the living room to make sure Kent knows Jeff is frowning at him.

“You realize not answering the question just makes me more suspicious, right? Is this your way of telling me you have a thing for cross-dressing? Because I love and support you and all that but your ankles are worth several million dollars and, no offense, but you really don’t have the coordination to walk in heels. We could find you some nice flats, though. Strappy sandals? At least until the off-season.”

“Oh my god, they’re not for _me_ ,” Kent says. “Not,” he hastily adds, “that there would be anything wrong with that. If they were.”

“Okay,” Jeff says slowly.

They stare at each other for several seconds.

Kent sighs.

“Eli wants some.”

“And there we go.”

“Apparently he’s always wanted a pair.”

“I should have guessed.”

“Him and Eric both.”

“Why didn’t I guess? It seems obvious now.”

“Jeff.”

“Hmm?”

“Is that weird? If I buy them for him?”

“Yeah, probably. I mean. Those are definitely Sex Shoes and you two aren’t having sex, so.”

“What—they are not _sex shoes._ ”

Jeff makes a derisive noise.“You know what they look like, right? Picture Eli wearing them with one of those little pairs of shorts he likes and tell me those are Very Platonic Gift for Your Bro shoes.”

“He said he’d cook in them,” Kent blurts out, ears pink, and Jeff has no idea what that has to do with anything, but clearly Kent is embarrassed about whatever it is in his head that’s prompted the admission.

“Okay?”

“So. I have been. Uh. Picturing that.”

“Oh,” Jeff says. “Oh, kid. I thought you said you weren’t—“

“I’m not. _I can’t_. I just.” Kent exhales like it hurts. “I want to.”

“This is bigger than shoes,” Jeff points out.

“Yeah,” Kent admits.

“You really like him,”

“Yeah,” Kent repeats, quieter.

“I mean. I don’t know if it helps, but I’m pretty sure the feeling is mutual.”

“It doesn’t.”

Jeff sits on the couch next to Kent, careful not to jostle him.

“It’s not fair,” Kent says quietly.

“No, it’s not.”

“He won’t date someone in the closet.”

Jeff leans against him, just a little, to make his presence tangible. “You can’t resent him for that.”

“I know. And I don’t. I just—I can’t—“ Kent closes his eyes. “ _I can’t_.”

“That’s okay too,” Jeff says. “But if you ever wanted to. If you ever decide to just say ‘fuck it’ and come out and screw the consequences. You know I’d be behind you 100%. Most of the team would.”

Kent laughs without humor.

“Can you imagine the shit show? The media would be terrible, yeah. But the other teams—it’d be a miracle if I survived a month after coming out.” Kent’s voice dips, wavers a bit before leveling off again. “So many of them already hate me. This would just—I can’t imagine it being worse than it is already but it _would_ be.”

Jeff want so badly to hug him but can’t.

“It’s not fair,” he repeats, and Jeff’s chest aches.

***

It starts with an Instagram post.

But the tweet escalates things.

Well. The Snapchat, really.

The Tweet _of_ the Snapchat.

_Damn kids and their social media_ , Jeff thinks.

The tweet is Tater’s fault. It’s two screen caps of snapchat messages from Eli. The first is a photo of various food ingredients spread out across Kent’s island countertop, some with Russian packaging, captioned “guess what I’m making??” The second photo is of Kit sitting on top of, and mostly obscuring, a hand-written recipe for Pelmeni. The caption for that one is a simple winking emoji.

Tater tweets the screen caps with his own smiling emoji, three Russian flags and _Eli best._

Three hours later he tweets a picture that Jeff himself had taken of Tater holding a laughingly-protesting Eli bridal-style. Tater is in the middle of pressing an exaggerated kiss to Eli’s temple. He captions it: _Eli’s Pelmeni 2nd place only to mama’s._

The internet decides this is even cuter than the picture of Kent and Eli.

Apparently the size difference between them is particularly adorable. Or something. Jeff doesn’t know. The point is: people care. And, as a result, Aces PR cares.

They’re not even done with dessert—the picture has barely been posted for thirty minutes—when Jeff’s phone rings.

“It’s Jessica,” he says, and Tater and Kent both wince.

It’s engrained at this point, really. A trained response. Because usually the only time Jessica calls you is when you’ve done something wrong.

“Get it over with,” Tater says bracingly.

Jeff sighs and answers.

“Hello?”

“Jeff,” Jessica says, “Are you at Kent’s place with Alexei right now?”

“Um. Yes?”

“I’d assumed you were the one to take the picture. Is your new friend Elijah still there?”

“Yes.”

“Good. May I speak to him?”

“Sure?”

Jeff hands the phone to a very confused Eli.

“It’s Jessica. Ace’s PR,” he says.

Eli’s eyebrows arch.

“Hello, Jessica from Ace’s PR,” he says, a little sharper than usual, his accent a little more pronounced. “How can I help you?”

His tone immediately mellows.

“Oh. Well, thank you. It’s really not—”

He leans one elbow on the table, listening, then cups a hand over his mouth, hiding an embarrassed smile. “It’s no imposition. They’re good boys.”

Jeff isn’t sure how he feels about being referred to as a “good boy” by an 18-year-old.

“Well, I can’t speak for them,” Eli says after a moment, “but I’d certainly be interested. I’d have to check with Eric of course—yes, that’s him—but I’m pretty sure he’d be delighted. Whether the boys are willing to or not—”

Kent meets Jeff’s eyes across the table, brow furrowed, and Jeff shrugs at him.

“That’s too kind of you. Yes. I’ll do that. I can give you my cell phone number, if that—well, great.”

Eli lists off his number, says ‘thank you’ another half dozen times, and then hangs up, handing the phone back to Jeff.

He looks a little dazed.

“Well?” Tater asks.

“She—apparently they’d like to come film a behind-the-scenes bit for Ace’s social media. Of me cooking here and, well they’d like it if y'all helped me. She said they would post a short segment to their various sites but I could have all the original footage and edit my own full-length how-to for our channel.”

“Yes!” Tater says. 

“Sure,” Kent says, a little more subdued. “They’ll need to wait a week or so if they want me to be able to actually do anything, though.”

Eli beams at them both. Kent and Tater turn to Jeff expectantly.

“This is going to be embarrassing,” he says. “But yeah, I’m down.”

Eli takes turns hugging them all—Kent, very, very, gently—and then retreats to the guest bedroom to call Eric.

Tater happily returns to his desert—some creamy custard thing (also Russian)—but Kent is looking at the closed bedroom door with a serious little pinch between his eyebrows.

“How you doing?” Jeff asks. “You haven’t iced in a few hours.”

“I’m okay,” Kent says. “Maybe in a little bit. How did Jessica know he was here?”

“Oh. Tater tweeted.” And isn’t that a horrible alliteration.

Kent wrinkles his nose. “Can I see? And what the hell did you do with my phone?”

“It’s in hiding,” Jeff says seriously. “For your own good. You’re still not supposed to have screen time, remember?”

“Yes,” Kent says through gritted teeth, “I fucking remember.”

Jeff decides a quick look at twitter won’t hurt him, and then, in the interest of full discretion, shows him the Instagram post from that morning as well.

Kent, much like the internet, lingers on the third photo.

“This is a good picture,” he says quietly. “I didn’t even realize you took it.”

“Sorry,” Jeff says, because Kent is making a face that looks—hurt, maybe.

“No, that’s not—you don’t need to apologize. It’s just. A good picture.”

“Yeah. I, uh, took some others too. That I didn’t post. If you want to see them.” He opens his photo reel and hands the phone back, not sure if it makes things better or worse as Kent scrolls through the pictures. He pauses on the second-to-last one, like Jeff knew he would. Like Jeff had himself.

In it, Eli is holding Kent’s chin still in one hand. The other hand had just wiped the smear of sauce off Kent’s cheek and Eli is in the process of licking his thumb clean, still smiling slightly, attention wholly on Kent.

And Kent.

Kent is looking at Eli like he is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. The expression of naked admiration on his face is—well it certainly isn’t something Jeff would post on Instagram.

Kent hands the phone back.

“I didn’t know I looked at him like that.”

“You do,” Jeff says inanely.

“Thanks.” Kent’s tone is dry.

“It’s—not that bad?” Jeff tries.

Kent doesn’t even dignify that with a response.

Eli emerges from the guest bedroom, giddy after talking with Eric, and immediately gets to work cleaning the kitchen and sorting the dishes into the dishwasher, moving with excited energy that appears to rub off on Tater, who stands to help him.

Jeff gets Kent settled on the couch with more ice packs and agrees to turn on the sound for the Redwings/Pens game provided they don’t turn on the actual television screen.

Tater leaves shortly afterward with a stack of tupperware containers and a prolonged hug from Eli and Jeff pretends not to notice that Kent’s expression goes a bit murderous for the duration of the hug.

“Eli,” Kent says seriously, once the door has closed behind Tater, “I’m kind of cold, can you come sit with me?”

And Eli, because he’s either oblivious or very good at faking artifice, immediately settles himself against Kent’s side.

Jeff suppresses the urge to roll his eyes at the superior look Kent gives him. As if he’s somehow won a competition for Eli’s affections against a straight man who is no longer even present.

By the end of the first period of the game, Eli is nodding off against Kent’s shoulder, entire body curled toward Kent, knees resting on his thigh, face tucked neatly into the curve of his neck. Kent’s left arm is wrapped around Eli’s back and his fingers are absently playing with the hem of his shirt, knuckles occasionally brushing skin.

By the end of the second period, Kent is asleep too, head tipped back against the couch, his hand curled, proprietary, around Eli’s hip.

Jeff knows he probably shouldn’t.

But he takes another picture anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D Did I mention this would be a slow-burn fic?
> 
> Captain's Log: In moving news, I am all settled in my new place and I adore it with the entirety of my being. In Real Life Hockey news, the regular season is about to begin! Rejoice! In academic news, all my classes are going well and I will soon be published! I have a chapter in a book about comics studies coming out next month sometime (ayyy). In dog news, Deacon remains handsome.
> 
> See you next week!


	12. Chapter 12

They film the segment four days later when Kent is no longer moving so gingerly. Tater has acquired a black eye from a fight the night before, which he bears with unapologetic levity as Eli despairs over him. It’s just a single camera guy and Jessica who consults briefly with Eli before setting up and then largely letting them to whatever they want. Eli decides to treat it like any other video blog, tells the camera their recipe for the day—a new iteration of Kent’s favorite chili, with bison rather than turkey—and then takes great pleasure in bossing the others around.

Tater takes it upon himself to “introduce” them all once they’re set to their individual tasks.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not necessary,” Eli says, turning on the stove eye.

“Is important,” Tater argues. “Guest stars need introduce. And cooking people not know hockey people, maybe. Hockey people not know you.”

“He has a point,” Jeff agrees.

Eli makes no more protests and starts sautéing some diced onion. He’s learned to pick his battles.

“Okay,” Tater begins again, gesturing toward Eli with the chives he’s supposed to be cutting. “This Eli. Tiny youtube chef. Best figure skater. Better than Jeff.”

“Oh my god,” Jeff says, aggrieved. “Is that really a necessary part of his introduction? I’m a hockey player now. A professional hockey player. I’m not _supposed_ to be good at figure skating anymore.”

Tater widens his eyes, feigning contrition.

“You figure skate?” Jessica says.

Eli has a feeling she definitely already knows this, but he plays along.

“Yeah. I’m on the LVU team.”

“And he can do Jeff’s old gold medal routine almost perfect,” Kent says proudly. “Jumps and all.”

Which isn’t strictly accurate, but—Jessica looks genuinely surprised at that.

“Really?” She says, “you memorized Jeff’s World Juniors routine?”

“Oh,” Eli says, “Yes? But I’m really not—“

“He did. And he skates it really well,” Jeff interrupts him. “Give him a month or so of concentrated practice and he could probably do it flawless.”

“You’ve seen him do it?” Jessica asks Jeff.

“Yeah. He comes with Kenny and I to skate when I have private rink time.”

Jessica looks delighted by this information.

Eli has a feeling Jeff is going to get a request to film his private rink time in the near future.

“Anyway,” Eli says, a little desperately, adjusting the heat on the stove. “Tater? Introductions?”

“Yes,” Tater agrees, gesturing to Kent with his knife this time. “This Kent Parson, but team call Parse or Kenny. Aces hockey Captain. Best center. Hurt little bit now but good soon. Team miss.”

Kent’s ears go pink.

“And this,” Tater continues, pointing to Jeff, “this Jeff Troy. Team call Swoops, because hair so pretty. Goes ‘swoop,’ yes? Is left wing player. Very fast but needs work on slapshot. More power.”

“ _Hey”_ Jeff says.

“And me!” Tater continues quickly. “I’m Alexei Mashkov. Team call Tater. Like tiny potatoes. But Eli call “Sweet Potato” because I’m most favorite.”

“I do not,” Eli says.

“Do!”

“I called you that _once_ and I was _kidding_.”

“Kidding?” Tater says, hurt.

“It’s not nice of you to play with Tater’s feelings like that,” Kent says somberly. “It’s hard for him to understand sarcasm in English.”

“Is true,” Tater agrees.

Eli rolls his eyes. “You, Mr. Parson, are a joke.”

Kent grins. “Well if I’m a joke, you’re a whole standup routine.”

“It might behoove you to remember that I have a scalding pan in my hand,” Eli says.

“Ohh ‘behoove’ huh? Breaking out the big college words.”

“Yes. Because unlike _some_ people I went to college instead of making a career in _losing_ braincells.”

“Children,” Jeff says. “I only coach one week of mite camp every summer for a reason. Can we not?”

“Is good practice, Swoops,” Tater says wisely. “For when Alex want make baby with you. Maybe take long time, though, for want. Because of face.”

“I mean,” Kent says, “to be fair, she married that face. So she knew what she was getting into.”

“Oh my god,” Jeff says, “I am the only hockey player in this kitchen with all his original teeth. Do not try and start a ‘who’s the ugliest’ contest because it will not end well for either of you.”

Eli blinks, whipping his head around to study Kent.

“Really? You have fake teeth?”

Kent taps his upper lip. “Two middle ones are both implants.”

“No kidding,” Eli hitches his hip against the counter. “What happened?”

“I have video!” Tater says, dropping the chives and wiping his hands off on his apron before retrieving his phone. “Very pretty play. Lots of blood.”

Eli gives Tater a bit of side-eye for the description and Jeff sighs. “It was admittedly a nice play. Stupid. But nice.”

“I made the goal,” Kent says defensively, like that’s what matters. Which, Eli supposes, for Kent, it probably is what matters.

Tater hands over his phone with youtube open and the clip already playing.

Eli abandons his pan and leans in close to watch.

Kent has the puck and is streaking down the ice. There’s an A on his jersey rather than a C, so it must be during his first year with the Aces. He passes to a teammate to evade a defenseman, then is fed the puck right back, going down on one knee to shoot. It’s deflected by the goalie and Kent nearly dives to recover it, a desperate one-handed shot, made while he’s in the process of falling, that miraculously connects, popping the puck right over the left shoulder of the goalie. At the same instance of Kent’s lunge, however, several players all converge in front of the goal, and in the chaos, as Kent tumbles onto the ice, he gets a hard-swung stick to the mouth.

Tater is right.

There’s a lot of blood.

Eli winces through the slow-motion replay, then hides his face in Tater’s bicep when the camera zooms in first on the red patch of ice beneath Kent’s bowed head, then on the stained towel clutched to his mouth as he’s helped off the ice.

Eli pushes around Tater’s bulk to gain access to the present-day Kent, looking a little sheepish where he’s leaned against the island.

Eli doesn’t say anything but his hands reach automatically for Kent’s face.

Kent goes pink under his scrutiny.

“I’m _fine_. It was over a year ago.”

“And it was just your teeth?” Eli asks, turning his head first one way, then the next.

“Just my teeth. And a busted lip. I was good as new a week later. And,” he says, like he can’t resist. “That was the game-winning shot. So.”

“Hockey players are stupid,” Eli says.

“Yes,” Tater agrees.

“Hey,” Jeff says, aggrieved. “What am I supposed to do with this cabbage?”

***

The video is an unmitigated success. It becomes the most-shared piece of media from the Aces Facebook page within 24 hours and the collection of stills they post on Instagram are equally popular. Between the constant sarcastic banter, Jeff’s long-suffering expressions a-la-The Office in response to the sarcastic banter, the general ineptness of the hockey players in the kitchen, and the fact that the chili they make looks really good (the combined delighted moans during taste-testing at the end were also a hit in some circles)—the Aces get the positive attention they wanted and Eli and Eric’s channel nears 70,000 followers.

The reaction on Tumblr is a little different.

Despite the Aces not having an official Tumblr page, the video, along with several photosets and GIFs, all immediately go viral where the chief discussion in comments and tags are who, exactly, is banging who. General consensus is that Jeff is the Beleaguered Straight One, but otherwise Tumblr is pretty divided on whether Eli and Kent are together or Tater and Eli. A few enterprising individuals make a solid case that they’re very happily polyamorous.

There is also a frankly impressive influx of fan fiction in the Aces RPF tag.

Eli doesn’t read any of it. Yet. Though he’s sorely tempted to at least skim a few of the Eli/Kent ones purely because of their teaser-blurbs. That would just make things worse, though, he thinks.

Eli gets a call from Eric as he’s leaving practice the week after the video is published. Which is strange, because they already had a FaceTime date planned for that night.

“Hey,” Eli says, a little distractedly. Since the regular season started, the Aces have moved their practices to 11 am and every other week or so Eli will stay in the icehouse and do homework in the hour interim between his own practice so he can watch. Or heckle, as the case may be. He checks his backpack to see if he has his stats book.

“Hey there,” Eric says, and he sounds—off.

“Hey,” Eli repeats. And then he waits.

“So,” Eric says. “Jack—well.”

Eli stops digging through his bag.

“Are you okay? He didn’t—“

“What? No, oh no, he didn’t do anything _bad_ , he actually—“

Eric makes a noise that, despite years of knowing him, Eli has no idea how to interpret.

“It’s just. Recently, since your videos have been getting so much attention I’ve been—not jealous!—okay, a little bit jealous. Because yours have so many more views than mine, now. And I know that’s petty and stupid but it—it still bothered me. Uh. Bothers me. I guess.”

“Oh,” Eli says, feeling sucker-punched. That hadn’t even occurred to him. _Why hadn’t that occurred to him?_ He’s a terrible friend.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “Eric, I had no idea. That’s not—you were the one who started the channel to begin with, too. I’m—what do you want me to do?”

“No, sweetheart,” Eric says, and it sounds like he’s smiling, at least. “Honestly, I’m so happy for you, and the traffic is good for the channel, it’s not—but listen. I was in a bit of a funk yesterday night and Jack found me on the roof feeling sorry for myself.”

“Were you drunk?”

“I may have been the slightest bit drunk.”

“And you were _on the roof_?”

“Do not start with me, Elijah. The _point_ is that in a moment of extreme weakness I may have cried a bit on Jack Zimmerman about my—well— _feelings_ about the situation.”

“Oh my god. I can’t even imagine. And?”

“Jack. Um. Sort of volunteered to be in my next video? He said we could do the same thing you did with the Aces except with a couple of the Samwell boys. He figured his name would be enough to generate some interest. But I didn’t know—I figured I’d better ask you first. And maybe get the number of the Aces’ PR person to ask them. I don’t want to cause any problems.”

Eli is honestly a little shocked.

“That’s—Eric that’s really cool of Jack. I thought—Jack hasn’t done any kind of media since the day before the draft. Like. ANY kind of media. He doesn’t even have a twitter.”

“I know.”

Eric’s voice has gone quiet and thoughtful.

“He’s been different, though, recently. Nicer, I mean. You know he’s been helping me with checking drills before practice.”

“Oh, you mean waking you up at 4am and terrifying you for an hour straight? You haven’t been all that complimentary about his ‘help.’”

“Well no. But it—it is working? Even if I don’t particularly like his methods. I don’t know. There’s moments now when—“

“What?”

“When I think we might be friends. He wouldn’t—he would only be willing to suggest the video thing if he thought we were friends, right?”

Eric sounds…more than a little pleased about this. Worryingly so.

Eli decides not to mention it.

“Yeah, for sure. That’s great, Eric.”

“Anyway.”

And now Eric sounds embarrassed.

“Well, let me get Jessica’s number from one of the guys and call her. I’m pretty sure the more publicity the better, though. I can’t imagine she’d have a problem with it. Besides, it’s _your_ channel.”

“True,” Eric agrees, laughing. “Thanks for understanding.”

“Of course. You still want to FaceTime tonight?”

“Sure do. Oh jeez, it just occurred to me what time it is for you. I didn’t interrupt your practice, did I?”

“No, you’re good. I was just packing up to head over to the Ace’s rink.”

“Watching the boys practice again today?”

“It’s Kent’s first day back. No contact, but still. We made dinner together last night to celebrate. Which, for being so terrible at chopping vegetables, I’ve found he’s very dependable with measuring and mixing ingredients. He successfully made your brownie recipe almost entirely by himself.”

“Eli,” Eric says, still laughing a little, “You realize falling for a closeted professional hockey player is just as bad as falling for a straight boy.”

Eli doesn’t laugh.

“Yeah, I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this?? And early update?? 
> 
> Captains log:
> 
> I'll be traveling home for fall break tomorrow, where I will work on grading and final papers while my mother feeds me. I'm pretty excited.
> 
> I have over 300 comments in my inbox and, due to my schedule, I can either answer them or write. Since I'm assuming everyone would rather I spend my small amounts of free time on the latter, please know that I ADORE reading comments. They delight me to no end--even just little "this counts as extra kudos" etc. Getting those email alerts are often literally the highlight of my very stressful days. So even if it takes me forever to respond, please do continue commenting and know that I really, really appreciate them.


	13. Chapter 13

Kent misses Eli.

It’s stupid, because Eli hasn’t gone anywhere. He still comes over at least once a week, and shows up intermittently to practices and sends daily texts and snapchats to Kent, as well as what feels like half the team at this point, but it’s still—it’s not the same as having Eli in his home. Playing his records. Dancing in his kitchen. Sleeping across the hall.

He’d only stayed for three nights but it was enough that now, two weeks later, Kent still knows exactly what he’s missing.

And his chest hurts with—with overwhelming affection and resignation and other emotions he doesn’t even have names for.

He doesn’t know what to do about it.

He buries his face in Kit’s soft belly fur, risking her wrath, and dedicates the first fifteen minutes of his Saturday morning to feeling sorry for himself. Half because he’s hungover from the team’s game-winning celebration the night before, half because he’s pretty sure he’s in love and it’s terrible.

“It would be nice if Hawke lived here too, huh?” he asks Kit.

She bats his ear with one paw but keeps her claws sheathed, so he takes that as an affirmative.

“Maybe next year?” He says, getting fur in his mouth. “I know Eli doesn’t want to stay in a dorm but his scholarship only covers on-campus housing. Do you think he’d want to move in with us? I mean. I know he really likes the kitchen. And there’s a dog park right around the corner for Hawke. I could reserve him a parking garage spot by the elevator. Should probably get on the waiting list for one now, though.”

Kit apparently has had enough.

Kent watches her escape to the opposite end of the bed with a sigh.

“It would be weird to ask him now, huh?”

It’s hard to believe they only met three months ago.

Kit is judging him.

He decides to go make breakfast, and by “make breakfast” he means defrost a stack of Eli’s blueberry protein pancakes in the microwave and continue to feel sorry for himself because the pancakes are amazing but they would be so much better if they’d been made fresh. By Eli. In his kitchen right now.

Twenty minutes later Kent has ordered a pair of Louboutins to be delivered to Eli’s dorm by express mail later that day and booked Eli a flight to Samwell to visit Eric over Thanksgiving break _because he knows Eli can’t afford to go home and Eric can’t go back either because he has a game the day before Thanksgiving and Eli really misses Eric, so seeing him would make Eli happy_ and apparently Kent doesn’t know how to handle emotions and he’s a dumpster fire of a human being. He starts shopping for new skates in Eli’s size too and has to stop himself because he’s probably already progressed into unacceptably creepy territory.

_Come take my laptop away from me_ he texts Jeff and then decides to go back to sleep and deal with the world later.

When he wakes up again it’s to his phone ringing (maybe it’s been ringing for a while? The world is still kind of fuzzy) and his bedroom door opening, which is a very weird confluence of events.

He doesn’t answer the phone in favor of squinting at the intruder.

It’s Jeff, looking amused.

Which makes sense, because only Jeff and Eli have a key to his place.

“Hey kid,” Jeff says. “You might want to answer your phone.”

When it starts ringing again a second later, Kent does.

“Muh?” he manages.

“ _Mr. Parson_ ,” Eli says, well, shouts, really. “Do you mind explaining to me why I have two airplane tickets for a trip to Massachusetts in my inbox?”

“Um. So you can go visit Eric? You said he had to stay at Samwell over the break because he has a game. And that you couldn’t go home. And that you wished you could see him play.”

“Yes. Yes I did say all of those things, but that doesn’t tell me why I have airline tickets that _I did not buy_.”

“I bought them?”

“I _gathered that,_ thank you.”

He doesn’t sound very thankful.

Kent’s head hurts.

“I’m sorry?”

Eli mutters something in Spanish and—Kent is still very confused but is now also a little turned on. Which, he knew angry Russian did it for him but apparently he needs to add judgmental Spanish to his list of kinks as well.

He groans a little and decides maybe he should pay attention to what Eli is hissing at him through the phone.

“—not like I don’t appreciate it, because, holy shit, it will be so good to see Eric but you can’t just _do_ things like that without asking!”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I just wanted—you were so great while I was hurt even though I was a dick and you’re one of my best friends now and like, if Swoops wanted to go visit a friend he would just buy a ticket himself because he’s loaded which makes it hard to do things for Swoops. But you’re not uh, loaded, which means I _can_ do things for you. And I want to. Because you do things for me.”

Eli is quiet for moment.

“That… is weirdly sweet.”

Kent exhales in relief. Then winces.

“Also, uh. Your last class gets out at three today, right?”

“Yes.”

“Will you be back at your dorm between four and five? Because you should be getting a package then. You’ll have to sign for it.”

“Kent.”

“It’s not a big deal!”

Except that it is. Especially if Eli thinks the plane tickets are too much.

Jesus. What was he thinking? He should have at least spread them out a little. Plane tickets for Thanksgiving. Shoes for Christmas. But he wants to give Eli _skates_ for christmas, so—“

“Kent,” Eli says, voice sharp. “I don’t know what’s going on with you right now, but I don’t need some sort of charity if that’s what—”

“It’s not charity! It’s nothing! I didn’t even get you a first-class ticket!”

He seriously considered it. And he did make sure it was a bulkhead seat so Hawke would have plenty of room. Eli doesn’t need to know that, though

“These tickets are _four hundred dollars_!” Eli shouts. “That’s not ‘nothing’! It’s—it’s _something_!”

“ _I was just having a lot of feelings this morning_!” Kent yells back. “And I have way too much money. Can you please just let me do nice things for you?!”

Eli is silent for several seconds.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“I’m coming over to make you dinner tonight,” Eli snaps.

“Great,” Kent mutters back, “just make sure it’s after 5 so you can sign for the package.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

They hang up on each other at the same time and Kent childishly throws his phone to the foot of the bed.

“That went well,” Jeff says.

***

It doesn't occur to Kent to warn Jessica because he doesn’t anticipate it will be a big deal.

So when he gets a call from her at 4:28pm, while he’s cleaning the kitchen counters in anticipation of Eli’s arrival, his guard is actually down.

“Hey Jessica, what’s up?”

There’s a distinctive, judgmental, pause.

“Are you and Elijah dating?

“Are—what?” He sets down the counter spray. “ _No_.”

“Then do you want to explain to me why you bought someone who is _not_ your boyfriend nine hundred dollar sex shoes?”

“Oh my god, they are not _sex shoes_ —and how do you even know about that? He probably doesn’t even have them yet.”

“They really are. And he does. Because he’s just posted a picture of them on Instagram and the internet is already collectively losing it’s mind.”

“I—hold on.”

Kent puts her on speaker so he can open the Instagram app.

Sure enough, the top photograph on his feed is a picture of the shoes, newly unpackaged and arranged artfully on top of the gilded box they came in.

Eli has captioned the picture:

_When you’re friends with @parser90 you must submit yourself to ridiculous gifts as thanks for common decency. #excessive #louboutins #heisadmittedlyaterriblepatient_

Kent doesn’t see what the big deal is.

“I don’t see what the big deal is.”

“Kent,” Jessica says patiently. “This is not the kind of gift a heterosexual guy gives to his male friend. Would you ever buy Jeff shoes like this?”

“Yes? If he asked for a pair. Look. I just wanted to do something nice for Eli because he took care of me the first couple days when I was injured. And he cooks for me all the time. And just. I knew they’d make him happy.”

“Oh my god,” Jessica says faintly, “I can’t even be mad at you when you’re so stupidly earnest.”

“Thank you?”

She sighs.

“Listen, up until now this thing with Eli has been great publicity for you. It humanizes you, makes people forget about your past…exploits. And since Alexei and Jeff seem just as close to him, no one was talking or making assumptions. The narrative was progressive without being polarizing: Straight Hockey Players Cool with Gay Friend. But we’re going to have to do some damage control now.”

_“_ They’re just _a pair a shoes_ ,” he says, still baffled.

“And that’s the line you’ll stick to. Unless you want to come out.”

“ _No_. I’m not—“

He chokes a little on the denial because he hasn’t had to say the words in so long, because he’s gotten a little too comfortable with truth.

“I’m not gay,” he says, voice rough. “Eli is just a friend.”

“Also the line you’ll stick to, then. You have a video interview with V magazine the day after tomorrow. Considering the timing, they’ll likely ask you about this. If you don’t think you can handle it we can postpone, but that will look more suspicious than anything else.”

“No,” Kent says, breathless. “It’s fine. Do people really think—?”

Jessica sighs again.

“This isn’t a disaster, Kent. It’s just speculation. But little things like this can quickly add up. You need to be careful.”

He swallows and it hurts his throat.

“If—“ she pauses and then starts again. “Just so you know, if there _were_ a gay or bisexual player on the team, the organization would back them 100%. PR already has an assortment of mock-up press releases and game plans in the event that a player is forcefully outed or intentionally decides to come out. It wouldn’t be easy by any means. But it wouldn’t be the end of the world either.”

Kent knows he should probably say something but can’t seem to make words work.

“Kent?” Jessica says, sounding concerned.

He hangs up because he can’t breathe.

He tries to call for Kit but the room tips sideways and he has to lean against the island for support, slowly sliding down to the floor, back pressed against the paneled wood. His breath is harsh and discordant in his own ears.

Eli finds him that way some indeterminable amount of time later.

He comes in yelling but stops almost immediately when he sees Kent on the floor.

“ _What the fuck_ —Kent, are you—? Hey. _Hey._ ”

Kent tries to tell him he’s fine even though that’s demonstrably untrue.

“Shit. So. I think you’re having a panic attack. Is it cool if Hawke and I help? Can I touch you?”

Kent manages a nod and Eli unclips Hawke’s lead, murmuring something to her. A moment later there’s a heavy weight across his lap, a sharp elbow pressed to his upper thigh, and a large warm mass of a dog leaned back against his chest. He tucks his face into her neck because it seems like the thing to do.

Eli slides onto the ground next to him.

“Hey,” he says, “can you try and breathe with me?”

Kent nods.

It takes several minutes, but eventually his breathing slows to something like normal and the top of his head feels solid again. He’s pretty loathe to move, though.

Eli, still pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with him, gives him a little nudge.

“How you doing?”

“Better,” he admits, straightening.

Hawke tips her face up to lick his chin.

He smiles despite himself.

“So,” Eli says conversationally. “I didn't know you have panic attacks.”

“It’s been a while,” Kent says, exhausted. “I had a bad stretch where I used to get them all the time, but it’s been months—nearly a year—since I’ve had one.”

“You want to go lay down in the bedroom for a little bit?” Eli asks.

“You coming with me?” He answers, because apparently he’s shameless.

“Sure,” Eli says quietly. “We can even give Hawke special permission to join us on the bed, if you want.”

“Yeah, okay.”

They move to the bedroom—where Kit has apparently been asleep the entire time—rude— and Kent sheds his jeans without thinking.

Eli doesn’t seem bothered, though, and follows him onto the bed, still fully clothed.

Well. “Fully” might be arguable because the tiny shorts he’s wearing don’t leave much to the imagination.

Kent fumbles for a moment, one hand blind in the drawer of his nightstand, until he manages to find the remote for the window blinds. He presses the button to close them and the room goes slowly dark, leaving him feeling vulnerable and unsettled.

He watches as Eli curls into a half-moon facing him, then pulls the duvet up to cover them both. Hawke settles, warm and solid, at the foot of the bed. Kit moves from the chair by the window, stretching, and repositions herself in a spherical lump beside Kent’s head.

Eli watches him, quiet, maybe a little worried.

“Sorry,” Kent whispers, because the dark makes him feel like he should. “I know you were probably looking forward to yelling at me when you got here and I ruined it.”

“Ah yes,” Eli says, “I’m sure that was your conniving plan all along. You want to tell me what happened? I can save the yelling for later. Or—do you want to call your therapist?”

“No. I see her the day after tomorrow anyway. Could you call Jessica back for me, though?”

It’s embarrassing to ask but he’s so _tired_.

“Sure. What were you talking about?”

“The picture you posted on Instagram. Of the shoes. She called to tell me I have to be careful. Because giving you a gift like that causes speculation.”

Eli narrows his eyes. “Speculation about _your_ sexuality? You didn’t buy the shoes for _yourself_.” He sits up for a moment to extract his phone from his pocket. “I have notes turned off, I haven’t even looked at it since I posted it. Hold on.”

He scrolls through the comments for a moment and then bites his lip.

“I mean. There’s not many mean ones, but most of the comments are about what a ‘gay’ gift it is. That could just be in reference to me, but—I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about how it would look. I can take it down? Except that probably wouldn’t help at this point. Shit,” he exhales, turning off his phone and then flipping it over, as if that will give him additional distance from its content.

“I’m sorry. I just keep making things worse for you.”

Eli goes quiet for a moment, bottom lip tucked tightly between his teeth.

“Maybe—“ he says haltingly, “I shouldn’t spend so much time—“

And Kent can’t even let him finish that sentence because _no_. Because once again Eli is upset and feels responsible for something that isn’t even his fault—feels bad when he _hasn’t done anything wrong_ and it’s completely unfair and the fact that Eli is talking about spending even _less_ time with Kent to protect him and his fucking ‘image’ or whatever is—

“No,” Kent interrupts. “No, you know what? This is bullshit.”

“Uh—what?”

“I shouldn’t have to—to not give you certain gifts or whatever because of some fucked up unwritten heteronormative rules about what men are and aren’t allowed to do for their male friends. I should be trying to change the way people think not just blindly following the shitty system that exists.”

Eli blinks at him. “Kent. That’s admirable. But it’s not your responsibility to try and challenge the system. Just like it’s not your responsibility to come out just because you’re gay and have a platform. You have to do what’s best for you and—“

“What’s best for me is not having to overthink every single thing I or my friends post on Instagram. Or remembering to police the way I act, or—the whole point of the You Can Play videos Jeff and I do is that even if you don’t fit into the stereotypical profile of a hockey player, you can still play and you can still play well. I may not be ready to come out, but the least I can do is not be a massive hypocrite by intentionally fitting myself into a mold while telling kids they shouldn’t have to.”

He feels a little breathless again but this time in a good way.

Eli is…smiling at him.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. I agree with you. Also, points for using ‘heteronormative’.”

“That would be Jeff’s influence,” Kent admits. “Here, can you hand me my phone?”

Eli does and a few moments later, Kent tells him to check twitter.

Kent has posted two screen caps from Eli’s Instagram—one of the post itself, another of some of the comments. He’s captained it:

_Can’t a bro buy his bro a pair of Louboutins? #fuckyourheteronormativebullshit #treatyobro_

Jeff has already liked it. As he’s looking at it, Tater, then two more Aces like it, then Eric, and then it’s too hard to keep up.

Kent’s phone rings a moment later.

He answers without looking and is entirely unsurprised to hear Jessica on the other line.

“I really wish you would consult with me before you do things like this,” she says, more fond than aggrieved. “Though I will admit it’s an approach I hadn’t considered.”

“Uh. Okay.”

“I guess if anyone can pull off cavalier acceptance and hyper-masculine security, it’s you.”

“Thank you?”

Jessica doesn’t say anything for short stretch and he can hear her typing in the background.

“Kent,” she says finally. “Are you okay? I was a little worried after our conversation earlier.”

He swallows.

“I’m fine.” And then, because he’s feeling reckless. “Eli is here with me now, so.”

“I see.”

“Yeah.”

“Well I’ll let you get back to…Eli. But Kent, please do keep in mind what I said earlier.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

“Okay, thanks. Bye.”

He drops the phone onto the mattress between him and Eli, closing his eyes.

“You alright?” Eli asks, bumping his knuckles against Kent’s

He catches Eli’s wrist before he can retreat, turning Eli’s hand so Kent can press his thumb, gentle, to the center of his palm. He traces the lines there—the indentations he can feel but not see. He slides their fingers together and they mesh like a habit.

He’s being selfish, he knows that, but he’s also so tired and he just wants—

“I’m good,” he says, belated, opening his eyes.

Eli looks…confused, maybe. Or sad. But he doesn’t pull his hand away.

“Okay,” he says. “Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:
> 
> I actually got quite a bit of writing done over fall break (both fictional and scholarly) so I will for sure be able to keep my chapter-a-week schedule for at least the next 3 weeks. Hurray!
> 
> Funny unrelated story:
> 
> I'm taking a feminism and explicit narratives course this semester which is super interesting (and applicable Re my dissertation in terms of fandom, ayyy). I have several projects/papers due for this class, one of which is an analysis of a set of three pornographic movies that came out in the 70's. I'm having a little party at my place tomorrow so everyone in the class can come over and we can watch the movies together, heckle, throw popcorn, drink wine, talk about them, and then go write our independent papers. This isn't unusual in terms of final project/paper prep, but it just occurred to me that I have invited a bunch of friends over to watch 4ish straight hours of pornography and none of us thought it was weird. 
> 
> Grad school is wild.
> 
> See you next week!


	14. Chapter 14

V magazine does ask Kent about the shoes.

It's supposed to be a puff piece in an online series about the average every-day life of Vegas superstars, and at least the reporter spends the first fifteen minutes on questions about his actual every-day life first, which was frankly longer than Kent anticipated.

“So,” the guy says, his smile both too wide and too white. “As I’m sure you’re aware, you were responsible for the hashtag #treatyobro trending on twitter yesterday. You want to talk about what prompted your tweet?”

A copy of said tweet is projected on the screen behind them.

Kent glances at it briefly before responding.

“Well, I bought my friend Eli some shoes as a thank you for taking care of me when I was injured a few weeks back. The tweet was in response to an Instagram post Eli made with a picture of the shoes—you can see it there. I thought a lot of the comments on his post were kind of messed up and I just wanted to call people out, I guess.”

“Well,” the interviewer says, still grinning broadly. “I think buying Louboutins foryour ‘bro’”— _and you can totally hear him using verbal quotes the way he says it, gross_ ,— “is a little different than buying, say, Converse or Jordans or something.”

“Yeah,” Kent says, intentionally missing the point. “They’re a lot more expensive, for sure. But like, I don’t think you understand how terrible I am to be around when I’m hurt. Converse would not have been enough for the shit he put up with. Not to mention that he cleaned Kit’s litter box for _four days._ ”

The interviewer laughs like they’re sharing a joke. Which they’re not.

Kent doesn’t laugh.

“So” the guy says, a little awkwardly. “Buying them for him didn’t make you uncomfortable?”

“No? Why would it?”

“Because they’re…women’s shoes?”

“They’re Eli’s shoes,” Kent says with studied blankness. “I bought them for Eli. And he’s a man. So I think they’re men’s shoes, in this case.”

The reporter doesn’t seem to know what to do with this.

“Look,” Kent says. “I don’t get what the big deal is. I’m really grateful for Eli’s friendship and his help and I knew they’d make him happy. Which. I bought Swoops a watch for his birthday over the summer that was worth four times as much. With like. Diamonds and shit. He put it all over his Instagram then and nobody cared.”

“You don’t think that’s different?” the reporter asks, his smile getting a little pinched.

“No,” Kent lies, thinking about Eli dancing in his kitchen the night before: the arch of his feet in the shoes, the distinct cut of his calf muscles, the twist of his narrow hips grinding to a low base beat, the glow of the Vegas skyline behind him.

“Not at all.”

***

It doesn’t end with the interview.

If anything, it gets bigger.

Tumblr collectively decides that maybe Kent is no longer a “problematic fav.” Tumblr also collectively appears to think this is due to Jeff’s influence.

They’re not wrong.

Eli has nearly as many followers on Instagram as Kent.

The Youtube channel actually _has_ started making money on adds.

The day after Kent’s interview,when they’ve just won a hard-fought home game against the Blues and the postgame interviews are winding down, Jeff is asked about his addition to the #treatyobro phenomenon: a picture of him and Rushy getting pedicures at the Bellagio spa together earlier that day.

“Well playing hockey is really rough on your feet,” Jeff says. “And goalies are on their feet _the whole game_. Some of the guys have started taking turns treating Rushy to a foot massage and a pedicure every two weeks or so. Just to show our appreciation, you know? His girlfriend sent us a thank-you box of cookies after the first time, too. The kid is brilliant at hockey but not so much at hygiene. His feet were pretty fu—uh—jacked up before we intervened.”

“HEY,” Rushy yells from his locker a few feet away.

“Don’t even,” Rushy’s former roommate, Coots, says. “You like, straight up shanked me with your jagged-ass toenails the first time we ever played video games together.”

“That was an accident!” Rushy whines. “The couch was too small. I didn’t mean to kick you.”

“That makes it worse! And I didn’t even say anything about the _smell_ —”

“Anyway,” Jeff says.

“So you agree with Parson, then?” The reporter asks, clearly trying to contain his amusement, “that we should reexamine assumptions about what behaviors are and are not socially acceptable between male friends?”

“For sure I agree,” Jeff says. “Where do you think Kent learned the word ‘heteronormative’?”

The man laughs.

“And your thoughts about some of the unkind comments left on your friend Elijah’s Instagram post?”

“Dude,” Jeff says. “Eli can do the entire Single Ladies dance in five inch heels. I’ve seen it. That’s not laughable or embarrassing or like, an affront to his masculinity. That’s amazing. And potentially the work of dark magic.”

He sobers a little.

“Seriously, though. I think it’s stupid to say that men can’t give certain gifts to other men because they’re too ‘feminine’ or too ‘gay’—not to mention how problematic it is to imply that ‘feminine’ or ‘gay’ are somehow bad things.”

“I think this is the most progressive conversation I’ve ever had in a locker room,” the reporter says.

“Good,” Jeff answers, and winks.

Tumblr _really_ loves Jeff.

As does most of the internet at large. 

He becomes a reaction GIF. He becomes a meme. People who don’t even like sports know who Jeff Troy—woke hockey player extraordinaire— is.

The #treatyobro hashtag starts trending again shortly afterward, this time with an influx of all sorts of different athletes posting pictures on Twitter and Instagram. A lot of them are in the same vein as Jeff’s: pedicures and spa days. But there’s a range. An NFL player wearing plastic gloves while dying the bleached tips of his teammates dreadlocks bright pink. Another NFL player looking delighted as he opens a monthly tea subscription box.Two NBA players surprising a rookie with a new suit. An MLB player and his Newfoundland puppy gifting his relieved-looking roommate a Pet Hair Edition Roomba. A rugby player, a bit shiny in the eyes, holding a tiny kitten with a bow around it’s neck.

One that goes largely without much attention, however, is posted by @shittyBknight. Kent would have missed it if not for the fact that Eli retweeted it. It’s a picture of Eric standing in the kitchen at the Haus, pink-faced and beaming. Spread across the counter is an assortment of pie plates, mixing bowls, and measuring cups—all in the same pale turquoise of Eric’s mixer. There are several Samwell hockey players clustered around him looking pleased with themselves but what catches Kent’s eye is Jack.

Jack is in the background—practically out-of-frame. He’s not acting like the others are: flexing, or hugging or hamming it up for the camera. He’s just sort of awkwardly standing there, hands in his pockets, present but not entirely participating. He’s wearing sweats and an old T-shirt from juniors; the same shirt he used to sleep in on roadies when he and Kent shared a room. Kent remembers exactly how soft the fabric is. The way it smells.

In the picture, Jack is looking at Eric.

And he’s smiling.

***

Eli has to leave town for his first big competition the week before Thanksgiving break. It’s in Las Angeles—the fall regional something-or-other—which really isn’t that far away. It even coincides with a long weekend that the Aces will be on the road as well, so it’s not like Kent could have seen him during that time anyway, but for some reason Kent has a minor crisis about it.

“Kent,” Jeff says, as Kent paces in the weight room the day before they’re supposed to leave. “I think you’re being a little dramatic.”

“I just—what if something happens? I know Hawke will be with him but what if he has a seizure and—“

“The coach who is familiar with his condition will take care of things,” Jeff interrupts. “He’s going to be fine.”

But Kent doesn’t _know_ that. And he realizes that it’s not like he would actually be able to ensure it, even if he somehow managed to go, but the fact that Eli won’t be in the normal places that Kent associates as safe: Eli’s dorm. The rink. Campus. Kent’s home. _With_ Kent….it’s a problem. For his brain.

Kent knows he has issues with anxiety.

He knows he has issues with protective instincts.

He knows he has issues with control.

But even knowing these things doesn’t negate the fact that he’s more nervous about Eli’s impending trip than he is about his own away games. Because even aside from medical concerns, what if someone is mean to Eli? What if people make fun of his scars or say something rude about Hawke?

Kent won’t be there to punch anyone who has the bad sense not to love Eli immediately.

“Are you friendly with anyone on The Kings?” Kent asks casually.

Jeff sighs. “Kenny. You are not allowed to ask random professional hockey players to go attend Eli’s competition as some sort of weird protective proxy for you. He’ll be gone for three days and back in Vegas before we are. You need to chill.”

Jeff is right.

He needs to chill.

“I should probably call Anika for an extra session, huh?” Kent says.

“Probably,” Jeff agrees, racking his weights. “Props for suggesting it yourself, though. Can you imagine having this conversation a year ago? If I so much as said the word ‘therapy’ you probably would have thrown a kettle bell at me.”

Kent snorts, swapping places with Jeff on the bench.

“We wouldn’t be having this conversation a year ago because I would still be freaking the fuck out about the fact that I like dick, and I _definitely_ wouldn’t be friends with a gay guy.”

“Valid,” Jeff says, glancing at the door automatically.“Can you imagine saying that sentence out loud in the Ace’s weight room a year ago?”

Kent winces, also glancing at the door.

“I should be more careful. Hanging out with you and Eli makes me forget, sometimes.”

“Only if you want to,” Jeff says with studied disinterest. “If you wanted to come out you know I’d fight anyone who came after you on the ice. Might spend all my time in the box and end up traded, but I’d do it. If you wanted to.”

For the first time, Kent doesn’t immediately dismiss the suggestion.

“So,” Jeff says a few minutes later, when they’ve moved to the stationary bikes.

“Did you see that Eric’s video posted last night?”

He did not. Because he’d spent the evening interfering with the filming of Eli’s own new video by “accidentally” walking into the frame in his boxers, making faces at Eli from behind the camera, and helping Kit “moon walk” across the counter top while Eli’s back was turned at the stove.

And then Eli had tried to teach him how to play chess because apparently it was inexcusable that he’d never learned up until that point.

There was a lot of laughter.

It was a nice night.

Especially because Kent convinced Eli to stay in the guest room since it was late and he could just head to campus from there the next morning.

Kent got to eat pancakes with a rumpled, sleep-bleary pre-coffee Eli before meeting Jeff at the gym.

It was a nice morning, too.

Kent refocuses on Jeff who looks a little too knowing about where his head just went.

“Well,” Kent says. “How was it?”

“Honestly? Pretty hilarious. Similar dynamic as our video in terms of banter. That Shitty guy Eli has told us about is a riot, and the two D-men are just as co-dependent as Coots and Nicky. But, uh. It was definitely the Jack and Eric show. They play off each other really well—you can see how they’d probably have good chemistry on the ice.

Kent waits for that to hurt.

It doesn’t.

Jeff is looking at him with a degree of caution, which is probably fair since he’s the only person, aside from Anika, who knows about Kent’s history with Jack.

“I’m okay,” Kent says. “Maybe I won’t be after I watch it, but—“ he shrugs.

“Good,” Jeff says. “One more set?”

Kent agrees.

They go to the Pretty Bird Cafe for lunch and then Kent drives home and stares at the front page of Youtube for a solid ten minutes, absently petting Kit in his lap, before finally going to Eli and Eric’s channel.

He clicks on the new video link before he can talk himself out of it.

Jeff is right—the towering D-man pair is endearing in the way big, earnest people are: finishing each others sentences and trying to do delicate lattice work with hands that seem simply too-large. Shitty is a comedic star in his own right with snappy one-liners and occasional rants about consumerism and The Patriarchy. If the internet loves Jeff, they’ll really like Shitty.

Jack and Eric steal the show, though. And the chemistry between them is undeniable.

They’re opposites in the most complimentary way—Jack, overly serious, brows pinched as he tries to measure the exact amount of vanilla the recipe calls for, while Eric teases him gently and nudges his elbow so the teaspoon runs a little over into the bowl. Jack, soft-spoken and measured movements, while Eric darts around, loud and laughing. Even their accents are oddly suited, the drawl of Eric’s long, southern, consonants and the Jack’s French-Canadian vowels meshing seamlessly as they chirp each other—familiar, and fond.

It does hurt, after all.

Just not in the way Kent expected.

He’s not in love with Jack anymore, and the realization is its own sort of relief. But he still misses him. Misses the only childhood friend he’d had. The only person he’d trusted until he met Jeff. The past is a powerful force though, because Kent did love Jack once—loved him in the way that young, lonely people love—too fast and with too much of themselves, and Kent _remembers_. And remembering hurts.

He considers Jack’s face on the computer screen, paused mid-laugh, head ducked, eyes on Eric, and then closes his laptop, feeling exhausted.

He doesn’t feel the same way about Eli as he did about Jack.

Loving Jack was terrifying. It was danger and shame and the constant anxiety of discovery or abandonment. What he feels for Eli is—still scary. But a different kind. A kind that might be worth it.

He and Jack were bad for each other. Something it took him nearly four months of therapy to realize, and another two to say out loud. The problem is that he thinks he and Eli could be _good_ for each other. Really good. Under different circumstances. In a different life.

Or if maybe he was just a little more brave in this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Kent.
> 
> Also, I'm pretty sure I stole the "punching someone who had the bad sense not to love him immediately" line from somewhere but I've absolutely no idea where I heard/read it. If anyone happens to know the movie/book/fic it came from let me know, please!
> 
> Edit: it's from Superstition_Hockey's original series "Superstition!"
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> I continue to feel bad about not answering comments (now over 600 in my inbox, holy shit, you guys), but it is admittedly giving me more writing time. If you've commented: thank you so much. I'm still trying to make sure I answer all questions, but I very much appreciate the "extra kudos" "I love this" etc. sort of messages as well. You guys are awesome and very much inspire me to write even when I'm tired and would rather just scroll mindlessly through Tumblr. So, you are instrumental in the production process. Well done.
> 
> For anyone who was wondering, the porn watching party was a great success and (hilariously) ended with us watching the pilot of the new Disney XD Duck Tales reboot. Millenials are a strange bunch. But we had a good time, which is the important thing. 
> 
> See you next week!


	15. Chapter 15

Eli wins second. A silver medal.

He has near-flawless performances all weekend and the final round is the best he’s ever completed his routine before and he honestly feels a little bit like an imposter because he’s _not usually this good._

He’s also kind of euphoric, though.

He nearly trips leaving the ice with his medal, folds himself around Hawke, waiting with his coach, and then calls Kent before it occurs to him that there are other people he should probably call first. Like Eric.

Like his _mother_.

“Eli,” Kent answers on the second ring, sounding more out of breath than Eli is. “Are you okay?”

“I got second,” Eli says, well, gasps, really. “Silver. I’m—I got _second_.”

“Oh my god,” Kent says, “That’s—GUYS” Kent yells—and it occurs to Eli that Kent has probably just finished playing their game against the Wild, “GUYS, ELI GOT SECOND PLACE.”

“FUCK YEAH,” someone yells, and oh, apparently he’s now on speaker phone.

“Eli!” Tater says, followed by something incomprehensible in Russian. “Knew you could do. Best figure skater.”

“Well, I mean. Not _best_. Best would be first place, but—“

“No,” Tater says. “Best.”

“Good job, kid,” Jeff interrupts. “And thanks to you, we won our game, so—“

There’s a couple indistinct shouts in the background.

“What?”

“Nothing!” Kent yells—followed by the sound of, well, hockey players being children, probably.

“Kent told us we had to win in regulation because if it went into overtime he might miss your call,” Jeff says. “He was on fire tonight. Very motivated.”

“Oh, really?”

“Mmmhm. Two goals and an assist. And Rushy got a shutout.”

“Congratulations!” Eli says, grinning. His calf starts to cramp and he stands, realizing that he should be taking off his skates.

“Listen, I just got off the ice and still need to change and do my cool-down. I just wanted to let K—you guys know.”

There’s a brief scuffle and then Kent’s voice, louder than the background noise, saying, “Hey, wait!”

“What’s up?”

“Hold on—I’m—”

The noise of the locker room fades and Kent’s line goes kind of echo-y. Like maybe he’s in a hallway somewhere.

“Sorry. Anyway. I’m really happy for you.”

Kent’s voice is rough. Warm and proud and—Eli closes his eyes.

“Thanks. I honestly shouldn’t have scored so well my last run. It was a fluke.”

“ _No,_ ” Kent argues, like Eli has just suggested something terrible. “It was _you_. You’ve been working your ass off. You spend hours at the rink every day, even when you don’t have practice. You deserve this.”

“Thanks,” Eli repeats, a little overwhelmed at the vehemence in Kent’s voice.

“So,” Kent continues, a little softer, “I know you need to cool off but can you call me later? When you’re back at the hotel?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. Be thinking about what you want to do to celebrate when we get back to Vegas.”

Eli looks heavenward, moving to sit on the closest bench and start taking off his skates.

“We aren’t doing anything to celebrate because you already got me Loubuitons and tickets to go see Eric next week and you _will not_ be getting me _anything else_ for a _very long time_.”

The line goes suspiciously silent.

“Kent,” Eli says warningly.

“It’s not really even for you,” Kent argues. “It’s for me. For my kitchen.”

Eli is pretty sure he knows what it is, because he’d mentioned in passing how happy he was that one of the Samwell boys had bought Eric a mixer, and Kent had gotten a considering look on his face that Eli is starting to recognize as dangerous.

Kent is worse than Eli’s Grandmother on a shopping trip to Walmart. You can’t so much as look at a package of socks or it’ll end up in the cart.

“ _Kenneth_ ,” Eli says.

“That’s not even my name,” Kent whines.

Eli’s coach taps him on the shoulder and Eli sighs.

“I have to go, but we’re talking about this later.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

***

There is a small unruly group of professional hockey players waiting at the airport baggage claim with ridiculous, and in some cases hardly-legible, hand-made signs when Eli arrives back in Las Vegas. When he comes into view at the top of the stairs, they start screaming so loudly that Hawke is momentarily a little scared, and a security guard drifts closer to investigate the situation.

Eli’s team finds this charming.

Eli considers killing Kent.

Tater gets to Eli first because he’s the biggest and Eli finds himself being picked up and swung around like some sort of Hallmark movie heroine.

Tater plants a smacking kiss on his forehead before setting him down and letting Kent wrap him in a hug.

Eli folds into him gladly, despite the fact that Kent is covered in glitter and his sign is probably the most gaudy thing Eli has ever seen. It says, in wobbly gold lettering, “Eli: #2 on the ice, #1 in our hearts.”

It’s so awful he kind of loves it.

Kent smells good and the flannel shirt he’s wearing is soft and well-worn over the firmness of his chest and—

Eli squeezes him a little harder than is necessary and then tells himself firmly to let go because bros don’t tuck their faces into their bros necks and then just _hang on_ for extended periods of time.

Kent doesn’t seem to want to let go of him either, though.

So there’s that.

Jeff manages to get a hug in too before Kent slings a proprietary arm around Eli’s shoulders and introduces him to Rushy, Coots, and Nicky who despite all being over six foot tall and frankly a little terrifying, treat him with a strange sort of reverence.

Eli doesn’t know what Kent has told them, but they seem to think he’s very important and are endearingly invested in trying to impress him.

The implications of that are a little winding.

Apparently Kent has already gotten permission from Eli’s coach to take Eli home from the airport so he waves goodbye to the Morgans and then joins the boys for a celebratory dinner that Tater and Kent physically fight over paying the bill for. Tater wins by sitting on Kent. Kent is a sore loser.

Two hours later he’s on Kent’s couch trying to finish his psychology homework, wedged between Kent and Jeff while Tater and Rushy are locked in an epic video-game battle. Coots and Nicky went home already and, once Kent notices Eli is nodding off on his shoulder, he sends everyone else packing as well.

“What, Eli doesn’t have to leave?” Jeff asks, feigning offense.

“Only silver medal winners get to stay,” Kent answers.

“I have silver medal,” Tater says. “Olympics.”

“I have two gold ones,” Jeff adds.

“Oh my god, go away,” Kent says, and more or less pushes them out the door.

Eli yawns. “I should probably go too,” he says. “We have practice tomorrow morning and I still have to finish reading this article.”

“Or you could stay and I’ll drive you tomorrow.”

“And then I’ll—what— _walk_ to campus after?” Eli asks.

“No. You’ll stay for my practice and then we’ll go get lunch and I’ll drop you off right in front of the math building for your stats class at one.”

“Pretty Bird for lunch?”

“Of course.”

“Alright, sold.”

He watches Kent load the dishwasher for a moment, thinking vaguely about helping him clean up the minor mess the boys made, and then returns his attention to his laptop. He really does need to get through this and he’s really, _really_ , tired.

An indeterminable amount of time later, when he’s on the last page of the article, Eli glances up at the sound of Hawke’s ID tag clinking against ceramic. She has her own set of bowls now, on the opposite side of the island from Kit’s, and Kent is rolling up the top of the bag of dog food he keeps at the bottom of the pantry.

He says something quietly to Hawke as he puts it away, then reaches for the bag of Kit’s food next, and Eli has to close his eyes against the domesticity of it.

_This isn’t normal_ , he thinks tiredly.

Because in addition to Hawke’s food and favorite brand of treats in the pantry, there’s also Eli’s favorite brand of Horchata in the refrigerator. And in the pantry there’s pumpkin granola that Kent thinks is too sweet, and wasabi flavored peanuts that he thinks are too spicy, and Kale chips that he won’t even try. And the cabinets are slowly filling up with roasting pans and Corningware bowls and pretty sets of measuring cups that Eli never sees Kent buy, but they just—sort of appear. And in the guest bathroom he has a toothbrush and toothpaste and shampoo and conditioner that stay there. Permanently. On the counter and in the shower and they aren’t even _travel-sized_ shampoos and conditioners. Which is important, for some reason. And—

And—

Kent turns out the kitchen light, vaulting over the back of the couch to settle, horizontal, with his feet against the far arm rest and his head on Eli’s thigh. He squirms, making discontented noises, until Eli moves his free hand to Kent’s hair.

And then there’s this.

They’ve been straight up cuddling for weeks now and at some point they’re going to have to talk about this—this _thing_ that is between them. But he sure as hell isn’t going to be the one to broach the conversation because then it might _stop_.

Kent squints at the the laptop screen, apparently oblivious to Eli’s existential crisis.

“What’s this?”

“Psychology article. Homework.”

“Mm.” Kent says, closing his eyes.

“What’s it about?”

Eli drags his fingers through Kent’s hair because it’s hard not to. He’s not wearing any gel for once, which means his cowlicks are in full force and Kent is rumpled and kind of sleepy and. Well.

“It’s, uh, by this guy named Arthur Aron. It’s called ‘The Experimental Generation of Interpersonal Closeness’ and it’s actually pretty interesting. Basically he paired strangers up and they asked each other a series of questions that got more and more personal and then they had a period of sustained eye contact afterward.”

Kent makes an encouraging noise.

“And there was a second group of strangers who were paired up and just left to have small talk. The pairs that did the questions and the eye contact all reported feelings of like, significantly more closeness with their partner afterward, compared to the small talk ones. Apparently a couple of the questions pairs even fell in love and got married.”

Kent opens his eyes.

“Huh. That _is_ interesting. What are some of the questions?”

“Oh. Um.”

Eli scrolls back up in the article. Then laughs softy. “Like: Would you want to be famous? In what way?”

Kent smothers a laugh of his own in Eli’s thigh.

“Yeah. Guess my answer to that one is obvious.”

Eli considers letting it go but—“Do you, though?”

“Do I what?”

“I mean. Did you want to be famous? Like. If you could change things, would you?”

Kent doesn’t answer immediately, which is a bit of a surprise.

“I don’t think so,” he says, rolling a little so he can see Eli’s face fully. “I mean. I don’t really like it—it puts limitations on me that—“ his forehead creases and Eli presses his finger to the line there before he can stop himself.

“Hockey is worth it, though,” Kent finishes after the silence has begun to stretch uncomfortably. His voice is quiet and little rough and he clears his throat before repeating, louder, “Hockey is worth it.”

It sounds like maybe he isn’t sure.

“What about you?” Kent asks, avoiding Eli’s eyes. “Would you want to be famous?”

Eli lifts one shoulder. “Well yeah. Olympic gold medalist. Which. I know that’s not going to happen. I’m too far behind. But if you gave me the choice? Hell yeah.”

“Hm. What’s another question?”

“Um, If you were able to live to the age of 90 and retain either the mind or body of a 30-year-old for the last 60 years of your life, which would you want?”

“Body,” Kent says promptly. “I would never have to retire.”

“Not if you have dementia or CTE.”

“I’ll read and do Sudoku to keep my mind sharp. And I’ve only had one concussion in my career so far, I’d be fine. What about you? You’d take a thirty year-old mind?”

“Definitely. And I’d eat well and exercise to stay physically fit.”

“That’s fair,” Kent muses. “This is kind of fun. Another one?”

“Before making a telephone call, do you ever rehearse what you are going to say? Why?”

“Oh, damn. Yeah. Every time.”

“Really?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Kent says, a little despairingly. “It’s the worst thing about being captain. They make me call all the new recruits and trades to welcome them to the team. I don’t even like ordering takeout. Calling guys that just lost their team and are about to uproot their lives? It’s _awful_.”

“But why?” Eli asks, genuinely baffled. “I mean. I get the trade phone calls but, normal phone calls? To like. Friends. Or your internet company about your bill or something?”

“Because. It’s not—if I have a chance to think about things and write them down I it’s less likely I’ll say something stupid or embarrassing. Real-time I can’t guarantee that because I’m not prepared. Same reason I hate video interviews.”

“Huh.”

Eli knows that Kent isn’t the unflappable, cavalier, asshole the media purports him to be, and, admittedly, the persona he seems to market. But this clearly low level of self-confidence is surprising.

He scratches his nails lightly across Kent’s scalp.

“Good to know.”

“So you don’t?” Kent asks. “Practice phone calls before you make them?”

“Nope.”

“You’re ordering Spinelly’s next time we want pizza, then” Kent says, sounding put out.

“Spinelly’s?”

“Little Italian place a few blocks away. They don’t do orders online so I just never get delivery from them.”

“Yeah,” Eli agrees, and this is—he did _not_ need to know more things about Kent that made him endearing. “Sure, Spinelly’s. Whenever you want.”

“Cool. Another one?”

Eli yawns and Kent sits up.

“Never mind, you’re tired. You want to go to bed?”

He does, but he also desperately wants to know Kent’s answers to some of the more personal questions.

“Yeah, but I need to shower and that’ll wake me back up for a while.”

“So,” Kent says, “meet in my bedroom in ten? We’ll hit a few more until you’re tired again?”

“Done.”

Kent stands, his hair an absolute riot, and stretches before he heads in the direction of his bedroom, absently scratching his stomach.

_Lord give me strength_. Eli thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually had to turn this chapter in two chapters because these boys would not shut up. So not much happens here but uh--it sets up next week's update which is a bit of a doozy. You have been warned.
> 
> Captains Log:
> 
> I had a lovely time (and my costume turned out amazing!) at the Halloween party. However, being in close quarters with that many people for a sustained amount of time is likely the reason that I am now sick and miserable. Luckily, I have enough of a buffer RE schoolwork that I can spend the next few days in bed without doing significant damage to my GPA. I'm going to try and enjoy my "vacation" by reading and Netflixing all the things I otherwise haven't had time for. If you have fluffy fic recs for me, please do share.
> 
> See you next week!


	16. Chapter 16

Fifteen minutes later, in boxers and an oversized raglan Vegas shirt with Kent’s name and number on it—it mysteriously appeared in his skate bag one day—Eli heads to the kitchen for a glass of water, sock feet soundless on the concrete floor.

When he moves toward Kent’s bedroom, water in hand, he pauses.

Because Kent is talking to Hawke.

She had left the bathroom when Eli did, but rather than following him to the kitchen, apparently sought out Kent for attention.

Eli leans against the doorframe, watching as Kent, kneeling, back to the hallway, smoothes his thumbs over Hawke’s brow bone,fingers curled in the thick fur beneath her jaw.

“—and I’m working on it. It’s just—you do a really good job, you know that?” Kent is murmuring. “You take such good care of Eli and I probably would have been freaking out a lot more if you hadn’t been with him. So.Thank you. For that.” He presses a kiss between her little furry eyebrows, sitting back on his heels. “You’re such a good girl.”

The fondness Eli feels for Kent in that moment—rumpled, bare-footed Kent, knelt on the floor and thanking his dog—it’s almost stifling.

Eli knocks his glass against the doorframe and moves to sit on the bed, pretending that he doesn’t notice the red flush on Kent’s neck when he joins him a moment later.

“So,” Eli says, because he doesn’t do emotions well and there are of lot of them happening right now. “Um. Questions?”

“Yeah.”

Kent closes the shade and pats the foot of bed, letting Hawke up to cuddle with Kit. They’re apparently best friends, now. Eli also has emotions he’s ignoring about that.

“Okay, questions.” Eli sets his water on the nightstand and pulls his laptop over between them. “Uh—when was the last time you sang to yourself? To other people?”

“The locker room after practice this morning was the last time I sang to other people. By myself? Probably yesterday night in the shower. You?”

“Oh. I don’t sing.”

“Ever?”

“Ever. And you should be thankful.”

Kent grins.

“I’m going to get you to sing one day. It’s on my bucket list now.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Kent looks like he’s ready to settle into an argument so Eli says quickly, “If you could wake up tomorrow having gained any one quality or ability, what would it be? That’s easy for me: the ability to pull off a quadruple Salchow.”

Kent rolls onto his side to face Eli, tucking a pillow under his head.

“Is that a spinny thing?”

“Yes,” Eli says dryly. “It’s a ‘spinny’ thing.”

Kent thinks for several more seconds.

“I guess I’d like to be fluent in Russian, probably? Tater doesn’t have anyone on the team to talk with and I think that’d made him really happy. He gets homesick a lot.”

Eli wants to punch Kent a little.

Because Kent is just so—he’s—

Moving to the bedroom was a bad idea because now they’re tucked close in a pocket of dark, warm, intimate space, and Kent’s hair is a mess and he’s being selfless and kind and Eli can’t help but want to touch him: the curl of hair falling on his forehead, the mostly-healed abrasion at the curve of his jaw from a collision on the ice three days before.

Eli clears his throat and asks the next question.

They work from the more general questions to the personal, answers coming slower.

_If you were going to become a close friend with your partner, please share what would be important for him or her to know._

“I have a shit tonne of medical issues. I’m a perfectionist, I’m introverted so I don’t like to go out a lot and I need my space sometimes.”

“I have anxiety and OCD. I’m also a perfectionist. And I’m impulsive and quick-tempered. I have bad habits and I’m kind of an asshole but I’m trying to be better.”

_Tell your partner what you like about them; be very honest._

“I think—the effortless confidence you have on the ice is really beautiful. I’m really impressed with how dedicated you are to your own hockey but also, like, the team as a whole, helping the rookies after practice and stuff. And I love how you are with Kit. And Hawke. And the way you care about other people. The fact that you’d want to know Russian for Tater. And, um. Your freckles. I guess.” (My freckles? Really?) “Yeah.”

“You’re so small, but also really strong, and fast and—well your skating is beautiful, obviously, but like, in general you’re just so much more of a person than your uh, body. That sounds stupid—shut up, don’t laugh at me—but you’re also really smart. And funny. And I love that you have like, really serious opinions about history and literature and you’ll get all worked up talking about them. And. I like how confident you are. And your cooking! And the way you talk about cooking. Like it’s art, or something. And. I like your hands, I guess.” (My hands?) “They’re nice.”

He doesn’t know how much time as passed, but Eli knows it’s late—his eyes heavy, breath slow, when he asks, squinting at the laptop propped on the pillows above them, “What is your most terrible memory?”

Eli sighs.

“Mine is probably the first time I woke up after the accident. Well. The first time I stayed awake for more than a few minutes. When they told me all the damage. And that I’d be lucky to walk again. My whole life—the plan I had, just—“

He exhales. “It was—I can’t even explain to you the feeling.”

Kent bumps his knuckles against Eli’s shoulder.

“You?”

Kent doesn’t say anything and Eli shifts from his back to his side to face him.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah,” Kent says, but it looks like he’s lying. His face is pale in the shadowed bleed of city lights through the curtains. His jaw is tight.

“I’m just—trying to figure out how to say it.”

“You don’t have to,” Eli says. “This isn’t—“

“No. I should. It would probably be good for me. Only Swoops and Anika know and I’ve never told anyone sober before.”

Eli blinks.

“You went to see your therapist drunk?”

“Look, I’m not in counseling because I handle personal issues _well.”_

“Point.”

Kent takes a studied breath.

“You know—about Jack?”

It takes Eli a moment to readjust. “Zimmerman? Eric’s captain?”

“Yeah. You know about his overdose?”

“Night before the draft. It was anxiety medication, right? He accidentally took too many?”

“Yeah. I mean, it was more involved than that, but yeah.”

Kent takes a second purposeful breath.

“He was my best friend. Well. My only friend, at that point. We’d been rooming together for the combine and then the draft. And it was—”

Kent breathes again. Five seconds in. Seven seconds out.

“I was the one that found him. That called 911. I came back from dinner and he was on the bathroom floor. I thought—“

Another breath.

“I thought he was dead.”

“Fuck.”

“I knew he was struggling and I left him alone. I knew he’d been taking more of his meds than he was supposed to and I knew he was having a bad night. I _knew._ And I went out anyway. Because we’d had a fight and I was mad at him and I didn’t—“

Kent drags in another breath, but doesn’t quite make it to five seconds before he’s exhaling again, too fast, and Eli pushes himself forward, into Kent’s space, tucking his head under Kent’s chin, looping an arm around his waist.

Kent’s free hand settles like a habit between Eli’s shoulder blades, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, probably right where _Parson_ is written across his back.

“It’s not your fault,” Eli says, the words smudged against Kent’s collarbone. “It’s not your fault and Jack is okay now. He’s happy and healthy and _you’re_ happy and healthy. And that’s—I can’t even imagine how horrible that was but think about how much you’ve both changed since then. You know that, right? That neither of you are the people you were then? You’ve been working so hard with Anika. And Jack—Jack lives with a houseful of people who love him and he’s the captain of a team that respects and appreciates him and he eats homemade pie at least once a week even though it’s not on his diet plan. You’re both doing _so_ well now.”

Kent pulls Eli closer with a hurt noise, barely audible from the back of his throat, and Eli doesn’t know if he’s helping or not at this point but he holds still, consciously measuring his breathing—hoping that Kent will mimic it.

They stay like that for several minutes, until Kent’s heartbeat under Eli’s ear has slowed to something like normal and Kent starts to trace his fingers over the 90 on Eli’s back.

It’s late and they’re both exhausted, physically and emotionally and— Eli is so warm and comfortable pressed against Kent that he just—can’t make himself move. Even though he should.

The silence stretches between them and Eliis nearly asleep when Kent whispers, “What’s the next question?”

He shifts, putting some space between them—not much, not enough to throw off Kent’s arm. Just enough to leave them face-to-face. He doesn’t look at the laptop because he already knows which question he wants answered the most. And it’s not fair, for either of them, for him to ask it, but he does anyway: says it softly into the pocket of recycled air between their mouths.

“If you were to die tonight, what would you regret not having told someone? Why haven't you told them yet?”

Kent stays silent, just looking at Eli in a way that makes his chest feel like it’s cracked open.

“Eli,” he says.

And that’s—he doesn’t know what that _means._

Kent moves his hand, slow, up the pebbled line of Eli’s vertebra, callouses catching on the soft knit of his T-shirt. He cups the back of Eli’s neck and presses his thumb, gentle, to the the rift of scar tissue that hugs the curve of his skull. Kent’s eyes are dark and serious and his mouth is so close, but he looks so _sad_ and Eli can’t—

“I’m sorry,” Eli says. “That wasn’t fair.“

Kent exhales, pulling Eli against him, tucking his face back into his neck where it belongs. Except it doesn’t, it just feels like it does. Which is its own kind of unfairness.

“We should go to sleep,” Kent says.

They should. And Eli should go to the guest bedroom but he doesn’t. Worse,he sneaks one hand up the back of Kent’s shirt. Just a little. Just a few inches. To rest his palm in the warm dip of Kent’s spine.

He knows he can’t have this, but pretending for a while isn’t going to make things any worse than they already are.

***

On Wednesday morning, Tater takes Elijah to the airport because Kent has a photoshoot with Under Armour that he can’t reschedule. Kent is pretty pissed about this, but Eli isn’t too bothered because Tater picks him up early and takes him to a tiny Russian cafe first that Eli finds entirely charming. He’d been a little nervous, initially, for it to be just the two of them, because while Tater has always seemed incredibly kind he is also very big and very Russian and very straight and Eli is…none of those things.

He really shouldn’t have worried.

“Think you can make?” Tater asks, gesturing with a fork to their plates.

Eli hopes he can figure it out, because the food is definitely delicious: a cross between a crepe and a pancake, topped with strawberries and pale pink sauce that is lightly sweet, but not overwhelming.

“I can definitely try,” Eli says.

“I’m miss mama’s cooking. Maybe I get her, um—“ he gestures for a moment, “cooking plays?” he says, a little helplessly.

“Cooking plays,” Eli repeats. “Oh, you mean recipes?”

“Yes. Recipes.” _Could he be more adorable? ’Cooking plays,’ honestly._ “ Maybe I get her recipes? For you?”

Tater looks so shyly hopeful that Eli wants to hug him.

“Of course. I’d love that. If she’s willing to share them, of course.”

“Okay, I’m ask. Oh, question. Internet question.”

Eli takes a sip of coffee and waits as Tater gets out his phone.

“Tumblr very confusing for me. All this—hashtagging?”

“Yeah, right there with you,” Eli says. “A lot of people on Tumblr use the tagging system as like, extra commentary rather than a platform for organization. It’s not like twitter or Instagram.”

Tater makes a noise of agreement.

“Okay yes. On picture of me—on video of me—lots people tag this. You know what is mean?”

He hands his phone across the table and Eli takes it.

There’s a picture of Tater in a celly, one knee bent, mouth wide open in a jubilant yell. It’s tagged #Alexie Mashkov #a good giant #body by Maytag.

Eli coughs on a laugh and sets his coffee down.

“You mean the ‘body by Maytag’ one?”

“Yes. I’m not understand. Is making fun?”

“Oh, no. It’s—so Maytag is an appliance company. They’re known for making refrigerators and stuff. So they’re basically calling you a refrigerator.”

Tater continues to frown at him.

“Which, okay, that admittedly sounds like a bad thing, but it’s not—it’s just saying they think you’re like, really big and strong. Sort of like why they called you a ‘good giant.’”

Tater’s expression clears. “Oh. Okay. And—go down little bit—“

Eli scrolls down.

“There. What is ‘sofbro’ mean?” Tater asks.

For a minute, Eli doesn’t get it it.

Someone has posted a collection of gifs all featuring Tater. There are a few on-ice: one where he’s stooped over, one glove held between his teeth, fixing Kent’s helmet strap, one where he’s hugging Jeff in a celly, one looking innocent while the ref points at him. There are others off the ice: when he’s got post-game fluffy hair and a big grin, talking to reporters,when he’s holding Kent on his shoulders in the locker room while Kent tries to dislodge a soccer ball stuck in the rafters with a hockey stick, when he’s wearing Ray Bans and drinking a frappachino as he exits the team bus.The last several are all from the recent charity calendar shoot, where Tater is holding an armful of puppies and looking delighted.

The post is tagged #a soft bro.

“Oh,” Eli says. “It’s a good thing, too. So. You know how ‘bro’ is used to describe the kind of person who is buff and plays sports and wears a certain type of clothing and is like, kind of a jerk but in an endearing way, I guess?”

“Yes.” Tater says. “Kenny.”

Eli grins.

“Right. Well, a ‘soft bro’ is a bro who _looks_ like a bro, but is also really sweet and gentle and like, extra loveable.

“Oh. And they say is me?” Tater asks, delighted.

“Yep.”

“I am soft bro.”

“Yeah, you are.”

They spend most of breakfast talking about social media and the most prevalent Tumblr tags for various Aces players. Coots is pretty universally “sweet goalie prince,” while Kent is anything from “captain pretty eyes” to “dumpster fire child” depending on the poster. Swoops is “wokebro” or “husband goals.”The rookies all get “this boy” and “my son” interchangeably with the occasional “Beautiful Cinnamon Roll Too Good For This World, Too Pure” that it takes nearly five minutes for Eli to try and explain to Tater. They giggle to themselves over a Tumblr dedicated to pictures of Aces in the sin bin and then argue amicably over who should pay for breakfast. Eli doesn’t put up much of a fight. He knows how much money Tater makes.

“We do breakfast again?” Tater asks when they’re back in the car and headed to the airport.

“Yeah?” Eli says. “For sure.”

“Good. You, uh, nervous, maybe? Sometimes. About touch me. Better now, but—” he gestures a little, “when we first meet, no.”

“Oh.”

He hadn’t thought it was obvious—that he’d been more careful around Tater, initially, than he was with Kent and Jeff. He sort of fell back on his Guy Interaction Protocol from home—as long as the other boys initiated physical contact they couldn’t get mad at him for being “creepy” or whatever the fuck they—

“You okay?” Tater asks.

Eli sighs. “Yeah. Sorry. Just—at home people weren’t super great about the gay thing. So I kind of got in the habit of never touching guys unless they touched me first. Just to make sure I didn’t make anyone uncomfortable or mad.”

Tater breaks a little too hard at a stoplight.

“You think I’m get mad? If you touch me? I’m hug you all the time. Is friends. Uh. Friendly?”

“Yeah, friendly,” Eli agrees, “and no, not really. I just. It’s stupid. Like I said. Bad habit.”

“But—“ Tater thinks for a moment, “But you—not nervous. With Swoops. With Kenny.”

“Oh. Well, I knew Jeff would be cool because of his sister. And he does the fundraisers and camps and stuff with You Can Play. And Kent—“

Eli stalls there. Because he can’t very well say that Kent is gay too, but—

“Kenny loves you,” Tater says easily. “So touch okay.”

“What— _no._ What are you talking about? Kent doesn’t _—_ ”

“I’m not stupid,” Tater says. “because English bad. _Very_ smart in Russian. Not need smart, though, to see Kenny loves you. And,” he says, almost as an afterthought, “You love Kenny.”

Eli feels like he might be having a heart attack.

Hawke, in the back seat, whines.

Tater glances at her, then Eli, and frowns.

“Hey. It's okay, I’m not _tell.”_

Eli doesn’t say anything. Can’t think of what _to_ say.

Tater continues to frown at him, then shifts his hands on the steering wheel, clearing his throat.

“At home, in Russia, when I’m little kid—no father, Mama work always, home late, always. So, after school, I’m go, uh, house beside house?”

“Next door?” Eli supplies faintly.

“Yes. After school, I’m go next door. Two men live next door. Old men. Funny. They listen to radio and yell lots. Not angry yell, just—loud. Happy. They take good care. Always have food for me. Always have little things for play—toys…” He says a word in Russian, shrugs, and moves on. “They help with school work. Help buy hockey gear. They good men. People say they…family, but not brothers?”

“Cousins?”

“Yes, cousins. But they not cousins. I’m see, sometimes, they hold hand in house, on couch—where no window. Touch hip. Touch neck. Soft. Like normal thing. Sleep in same room. I’m not see kiss, ever, but—I know what love looks like. When it have to be secret.”

Eli feels like he might cry.

“I think it's bad,” he continues, gentle, “For have to be secret. But I’m not tell. Don’t worry.”

“That’s not—“

Eli swallows around the hotness in his throat. “There isn’t anything _to_ tell,” he says. “I wish there was,” he admits, because why not? “but there isn’t.”

Tater makes a disbelieving noise.

“You think you have feels—“

“Feelings,” Eli corrects, “Tumblr is ruining you.”

“You think you have _feelings_ ,” Tater repeats, rolling his eyes, “but not Kenny?”

“I don’t know how Kent feels. But he wouldn’t—there’s no way he’d risk his career even if he was interested in me. So. I just have to get over this crush.”

Tater makes a considering noise.

“Hard to ‘get over’ when Kenny text you always, touch you always, buy you pretty shoes and airplane to visit friend.”

“Yeah,” Eli sighs. “Tell me about it.”

Tater glances at him, eyebrows pinched and unhappy.

“Sorry.” He says, reaching to pat Eli awkwardly on the back. “Not fair.”

“Not your fault. But thanks. I, uh, really appreciate you telling me that story.”

Tater squeezes his shoulder.

When they get to the airport, he comes around to the passenger side to help Eli with his bags. Once everything is unloaded on the curb, Eli stands on his tiptoes and, without a moment of hesitation, hugs him very, very, tightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will reiterate that this is a slow burn fic. ;)
> 
> Captains Log:
> 
> Early chapter today because tomorrow I will be busy dawn to dusk and likely fall asleep as soon as I get home. I have an actual in-class, written, 3-hour exam tomorrow at 2:30 pm composed of several short essay prompts that I'm currently studying for (and generally freaking out about) so pray for me/think positive things/make sacrifices to the pagan grad school gods around that time period, if you please. 
> 
> This also marks the end of my chapter buffer. I have most of next week's chapter written, but we're also getting to the stressful part of the semester in terms of workload and I've been sick so my academic buffer is all used up as well. Please be patient with me if I'm not able to keep up my weekly posting schedule as we get into finals territory.
> 
> See you soon!


	17. Chapter 17

Eric meets Eli at the baggage claim and Eli tackles him.

Legitimately tackles him.

They end up sprawled on what is undoubtedly a disgusting floor with Hawke jumping excitedly around them, trying to lick Eric’s face. Which he probably shouldn’t allow since her vest is still on but Eli has lost all sense of decorum and it seems only fair that Hawke gets a temporary pass as well.

It’s cold, colder than Eli was prepared for, but Eric is clearly dressed for the weather in a pair of skinny jeans, brown boots, and matching brown cardigan over a white collared shirt. There’s a pea coat he picks up from the floor and folds back over his arm once they’re standing again and he just looks so good. Happy. Comfortable with himself in a way that he never looked at home. It makes Eli want to hug him. So he does.

Eric talks at him non-stop while they wait for his checked bag and then he leads Eli to the parking garage where he unlocks a very large, very new, very shiny, black pickup truck.

Eli whistles.

“Nice truck. You get a sugar daddy and not tell me?”

“Oh, it’s Jack’s. I was going to borrow Holster’s car but it’s a coupe and Jack thought there’d be more room for Hawke if I took his truck instead.”

“ _Did_ he.”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to infer with that Tone, _Elijah_ , but if you want pie…”

“You’ll make me whatever kind I want regardless. Don’t play. You missed me.”

“I did. So much.”

Eric looks like he might get a little teary which Eli definitely cannot handle after the morning he’s had, so he punches him lightly in the shoulder and moves to get Hawke settled in the back seat.

“Now,” Eric says, once they’ve started driving. “The boys are really excited to meet you and I’ve told them to take it easy but they’ll probably still overwhelm you a bit. Don’t worry, though. They’re big and loud but they’re all sweethearts.”

“You realize I spend time with professional hockey players on a near-daily basis, now,” Eli says. “I think I can handle an NCAA team.”

“Sure you can, honey,” Eric says placatingly. “Just wanted to warn you.”

Eric’s concern is sweet, Eli thinks, but at this point completely unnecessary.

It’s only a twenty minute drive and Eli had planned to let Eric talk for most of it (lord knew the boy could talk) but Eric asks him a couple innocent questions about Kent and the next thing he knows he’s ranting about his unfair eyes and the fact that his weird fixation on internet quizzes should not be cute.

“Internet quizes?” Eric prompts.

“YES. And not even the normal ones like Harry Potter houses—weird ones. Like ‘Could you live through the Oregon trail?’ and ‘What Victorian minstrel are you?’ And his teammates send him links to more and more obscure ones all the time because they all know at this point that he’ll take them because for some reason he will _just have to find out_ what sort of breakfast cereal he would be. It’s so stupid.”

He says ‘stupid’ with a degree of fondness that is frankly a little embarrassing.

Eric is judging him quietly, bottom lip tucked between his teeth.

“Yes, thank you,” Eli says, “I’m gone on him, I’m aware. But you don’t have any place to talk. The last _three_ recipes you’ve made involved maple syrup sourced specifically from Quebec.”

Unlike Kent, who’s blushes tend to manifest in his ears and the back of his neck, Eric’s flush dapples the sides of his cheeks.

“You hush your mouth. There are _three_ Canadians on my team.”

“And you have a giant crush on _one_ of them. What was it you were telling me the other day? About falling in love with hockey players? Hi Mr. Pot, I’m Kettle.”

Eric sighs.

“Fine. I have a problem.”

Eli reaches over the center console and laces their fingers together. It’s a little strange, because the only person he’s held hands with recently is Kent and his hands are significantly bigger and rougher than Eli’s. Eric has callouses in a lot of the same places Kent does,but his hands are so small, strangely unfamiliar after nearly four months apart.

“We make terrible life choices,” Eli points out.

“So terrible,” Eric agrees.

“It would be a lot easier if we could just be in love with each other.”

“Yeah, no. I’m not kissing you again,” Eric says.

***

It turns out that Eli is not, in fact, prepared for Eric’s team.

Unlike Kent’s teammates, Eric’s make no attempt at either suppressing their exuberance, nor impressing him.

Five minutes after meeting the residents of the “Haus” he’s seen Shitty entirely naked, discussed the fact that Johnson is probably going to be on academic suspension after he took a midterm hungover that morning (but at least it won’t be graded until after the next game, bro!) and he knows that Holster, blessedly not naked, apparently has a suspicious rash.

Eric ushers him into the kitchen and away from madness of the living room, laughing a little at his facial expression.

“I did warn you,” he says.

“You did,” Eli agrees.

Hawke leans against his leg, but doesn’t make it a secret that she’d rather return to the couch where Ransom had been petting her a few minutes before.

“We already ate,” Eric says, hand on his hip in front of the open refrigerator, but I can probably manage a sandwich for you, if you want.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

He pulls out his phone, sitting on one of the mis-matched chairs at the wobbly, heavily-scarred kitchen table.

“Any plans for tonight?” he asks.

“Nah, Jack said no parties until after the game Friday. Which—we talked about how to handle that for you and we think we have a plan.”

Eli narrows his eyes. “Okay?’

“It won’t be like, super crazy, since a lot of people went home for the break today, but even a chill kegster is probably going to be too much for Hawke. Jack said that maybe you could keep her in his bedroom upstairs where it’s quiet, and you could run up and check in with her every so often? Or escape if you get overwhelmed.”

Which. Huh. That might work.

“It was Jack’s idea,” Eric says.

“Of course it was.”

Eric shakes a packet of lunch meat at him. “Hush, Mister. I just wanted your visit to be perfect and I thought—“

“No, Eric, hey, I really appreciate it.”

Eli pulls him into a hug because he can. Because he’s missed him so much.  
“It sounds weird now,” Eric says, voice a little muffled in Eli’s shoulder, “my name. No one calls me Eric here.”

“Hey, Bits!” Shitty yells from the living room, and they both laugh, “Aces game is starting!”

Eli leans back against the counter, letting Eric finish putting together the sandwich for him.

“We’re watching the Aces game?”

“I figured you’d want to.”

“They don’t mind?”

Eric gives him an unimpressed look.

“We’re hockey players. If there’s a game on, we’re usually watching it. And the only other teams playing tonight are the—“

“Sabres and the Canucks,” Eli supplies absently, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He realizes he never turned off airplane mode and does now, watching as his phone lights up with notifications.

Eric has gone quiet and Eli glances back up at him.

“What?”

“It’s just so weird. You knowing things about hockey.”

“Proximity.”

“Fair.”

Eric hands him a chipped plate with a thick sandwich on it and they move into the living room where Hawke happily returns to Ransom’s lap to be smothered in affection.

They’re singing the national anthem on the television, so Eli returns his attention to the notifications on his phone. He’s missed several texts from Jeff and a series of snaps from Tater. He reads Jeff’s texts first:

_Just a heads up, you were papped at the airport. Tater thinks it’s a riot but you probably want to call Kenny tonight if you’re still awake after the game._

_Also, Jessica says it’s no big deal, so don’t worry.  
But yeah. Call Kent._

_Please._

Frowning, Eli opens his snaps from Tater.

The first one is a screenshot of a headline on gossip website surrounded by emoji hearts:

**Gay Romance Between Russian Hockey Star and Teenaged Youtube Personality?**

The second is another screenshot—this time of several thumbnail pictures of Tater dropping Eli off at the airport.

To be fair, Eli thinks with a sigh, the hug does look…incriminating.

He also kind of gets why Tumblr likes to ship them, because the pictures really emphasize their size difference, and the way Tater has his shoulders all hunched, and his head ducked, like he’s trying to envelope Eli entirely is…well. It’s pretty damn cute, honestly.

The third snap is of Tater’s grinning face, aviators on and baseball cap turned sideways.

_I'm soft boyfriend now_ the caption says, accompanied by a winking emojii.

Eli coughs on the bite of sandwich in his mouth, then waves a concerned Eric away, trying to swallow and laugh at the same time.

He checks his Instagram and Twitter, both of which have an influx of people inquiring if he’s dating Alexei Mashkov, then taps back over to his texts.

Where he pauses.

Because Kent hadn’t sent him anything since right before he’d boarded the plane that morning. Which would be odd, but not like, really strange, if not for the fact that Kent _always_ texts him before a game. An hour and forty-five minutes before. Always.

_Hey_ , Eli types, _I hope everything is ok. I made it to Samwell and we’ve got the game turned on at the Haus. Kick some Blackhawk ass for me. FaceTime tonight?_

The game starts and Eli tucks his phone back in his pocket, still frowning.

If hockey players are anything, they’re predictable—especially Kent when it comes to his pregame rituals.

“Hey,” Eric says, leaning against him. “Everything okay?”

“I dunno. Probably. Kent stuff.”

Jack, sitting on the floor in front of Shitty, glances sharply at him, then just as quickly redirects his attention to the TV.

Where the Blackhawks have just scored less than a minute into regulation.

_Shit._ Eli thinks.

***

The Blackhawks slaughter the Aces.

The game ends 6-1 with Kent in box for the third time that night—the highest number of penalty minutes he’s taken in a game all season.

He’s been playing overly-aggressive and for a brief, terrifying, moment, Eli thinks he may actually fight someone after words are exchanged at a faceoff. Kent has never fought anyone in his NHL career. Something is clearly wrong.

Johnson offers Eric and Eli his room for the night since he’s staying with his girlfriend and, cold as it is, neither of them want to trudge across campus in the dark with Eli’s luggage.

They get ready for bed, subdued, not talking through the brushing of teeth and washing of faces, then fit themselves together in Johnson’s twin bed, piling an extra two blankets—loaned from Jack with a gentle chirp about Georgia blood—on top of them.

“Is something wrong with Kent?” Eric whispers.

“Yeah. I don’t know what, though. He was fine yesterday night. I asked him to FaceTime me after the game, so—“

“Oh, for sure. Don’t worry about waking me up.”

“Okay.”

Eli stares at his phone, plugged in and resting, innocuous, on the nightstand, and waits for it to ring.

It doesn’t.

When he wakes up the following morning—the grey light coming in the window telling him it’s still far too early—there aren’t any missed calls. And no new text messages.

He carefully extract’s himself from Eric’s clinging limbs and tucks his phone into his hoodie pocket before shivering his way down the stairs.

He’s pleased to find that, while meager, the refrigerator’s contents are enough to work with, and, after ten minutes and half a cup of coffee, he has several pieces of French Toast slowly cooking in a well-buttered pan.

Which is when Jack comes in the front door.

He’s wearing leggings, a thermal turtleneck with reflective stripes, and bright yellow running shoes.

His face is flushed with cold or exertion or both.

“Oh,” Jack says. “Uh. Good morning.”

“Morning,” Eli says, and then hands him a glass from the cabinet because the man is clearly thirsty.

Jack fills it up in the sink, drains it, and sets it on counter, hands on his hips, still breathing hard.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.

Eli shrugs. “Time difference. I take it you’re awake at 5am on purpose?”

“Oh. Not really, actually. I was just. Thinking. And decided to go for a run. Do you want some help?”

“Uh—it’s almost done, actually. But thanks. Want to share?”

Jack moves to fill up his glass with water again.

“No thank you. I’ll make a protein shake here in a minute.”

He takes his time drinking the second glass and Eli has to fight not to stare at him because the man is, admittedly, very attractive. Particularly in lycra.

“So,” Jack says carefully. “I know it’s not any of my business, but I’ve been watching your videos, and Bitty has shown me some of your tweets and Instagram posts and it seems like—“ he licks his lips, ducking his head a little, and yeah, Eli can see exactly why Eric is so infatuated with this giant, handsome, awkward turtle of a man.

“Kent seems happy,” Jack says finally, like it takes significant effort. “Well. Not last night. He was definitely angry about something last night. But I mean, in the videos, when he’s with you. He usually seems happy. And I was wondering, um. If he is. Happy.”

Eli doesn’t know how to respond. He moves to the refrigerator to put away the eggs, stalling for time. Because he doesn’t know what Kent would want him to do, here. Doesn’t know what he can share without—

“I know what I did to him wasn’t fair,” Jack says lowly, words sort of bumping into each other. “And I know you probably don’t like me very much because of it. But I had to cut him off when I went to rehab. For me. So I could figure out—but it still wasn’t right. He was nearly as messed up as I was at that point and without him, I, at least, still had a support system. Kent didn’t. He lost his boyfriend and his best friend over night and I really. I regret doing that to him.”

Eli doesn’t drop the eggs but it’s a near thing.

He closes the refrigerator door slowly.

Jack considers his expression and then leans back against the counter, looking a little struck.

“He didn’t tell you.”

“He told me about his ex. And about you. But not. No. Which, maybe I should have guessed with the things he _has_ told me but—“

Jack exhales, “ _Merde_. I’m sorry. I thought—“

“It’s okay. I mean. He probably wanted to tell me but didn’t want to like, violate your privacy or whatever. I just. Wow. Is that why—no. Sorry. That’s a completely invasive question. I’m going to need a minute.”

Jack laughs a little. “I don’t mind if Kent tells you,” he gestures a little awkwardly between them, “uh, everything. I thought he already had. But, _I_ probably shouldn’t say anything else. It’s not just my story.”

“No, that’s totally fair. Does—do you mind if I ask if anyone else on the team here knows?”

“Knows what, about me and Kent?”

“Knows that you’re gay.”

“Oh. I’m bi? Actually. And just Shitty. No one else. I’m still planning to join the NHL when I graduate and I can’t—I don’t know if I could handle that. Being the first. And the team is great, I trust them all, but the more people who know…”

“Yeah. I understand. There’s only one—well, I guess two—people on Kent’s team who know about him.”

“He has you, though,” Jack says, soft, maybe a little pensive.

“Yeah,” Eli says. “But we’re not, like, together, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Oh.”

Jack looks even more surprised by this.

“But—“ he bites his lip, looking a little lost.

“I think,” Eli says, picking up the whisk so he has something to do with his hands, “that maybe we could be. In different circumstances. But Kent has said pretty clearly that he isn’t willing to risk his career by dating. Or even hooking up. So.”

Jack crosses his arms, his face doing something complicated.

“So. He’s just going to be alone.”

“Until he retires, yeah.”

Jack closes his eyes.

“He’s good, though,” Eli says, moving to flip the bread in the pan. “I mean. Better, definitely. He’s been in therapy. And he is happy, most of the time.”

“Good,” Jack says, and it sounds like he means it. “Do you think he’d want to talk to me? I meant to get back in touch when I was better. But then so much time had passed and I didn’t know how. Or even if he’d want me to.”

Eli has to think about that for a minute. “I think he misses you,” he says, honest. “But I also think talking to you would be really hard for him. At least at first.”

He glances at his phone.

“I also think contacting him like… _now_ , would be a bad idea.”

Jack huffs out a laugh.

“Yeah. I was watching the game last night, too.”

Eli plates the four pieces of completed French toast, twists closed the bread and puts the bowl of leftover egg mixture in the refrigerator for later.

“You sure you don’t want one of these?” Eli asks, moving past Jack to the kitchen table.

Jack eyes the plate with a familiar, longing expression and Eli grins.

“Maybe just one piece,” Jack says, and then, a moment later. “Bitty keeps powdered sugar next to the microwave if you want to put some on top.”

“I think we’d better,” Eli agrees seriously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Kent.
> 
> Captains Log: There has been Serious Drama Afoot in my scholastic world (I'm fine and not in any trouble--though the same cannot be said for my office mate). This, combined with my it's-nearly-finals schedule, resulted in the late chapter. Apologies! I literally just finished writing it, so there will probably be some errors--do feel free to point them out if you see them!
> 
> Thanks for your patience and I'll (hopefully) see you next week!


	18. Chapter 18

Eli gets a text from Jeff while he and Eric are getting post-lunch PSLs at a little on-campus coffee shop called Annie’s. They’re closing early for Thanksgiving and he and Eric just barely make it in time—then bundle up in their coats and take the long way past Faber back to the Haus.

Jeff’s text reads: _Kent is home alone right now and having a lot of Feelings. Can you do us all a favor and call him?_

Eli is actually kind of pissed at Kent by this point, but once they shed their various winter layers, Eli takes his phone up to Johnson’s room and calls anyway.

Kent answers on the third ring.

“Hi,” he says, sounding suitably cowed.

“Hi,” Eli agrees.

“I’m sorry,” Kent says.

“Can you tell me what happened? Because I’m lost.”

“I don’t know. Its just. Those pictures—“

“Oh my _god_ ,” Eli says. “Are you kidding me? Tater _isn’t gay_.”

“I know.”

“And even if he was and we _were_ like, romantically involved, you wouldn’t get to be angry about that—”

“I know.”

“—because _you’re not my boyfriend!_ ”

_“I know,”_ Kent says, and his voice goes high and tight. “I’m sorry. I’m just. I’m not in the best place right now. Brain wise. And the pictures didn’t help. I realize I’m being stupid, okay? I’m sorry.”

Kent sounds so miserable that Eli can’t sustain his frustration.

“Okay,” he says, absently petting Hawke’s head. “You want to talk about it?”

Kent makes a derisive noise.

“Mm. Rephrase. _Should_ we talk about it?”

“Probably.”

“Ready when you are.”

Kent sighs.

“I was already anxious and like…not uncomfortable, but. You’re with Jack. Right now. And thinking about you spending time with Jack has made me think about—before. And it’s not bad or anything. It’s just weird.So I’m working through that. And then with the pictures of you and Tater… I was, uh. Jealous. I guess.”

“Of _Tater_?” Eli says, still baffled.

“Because it didn’t _matter_ to him,” Kent says, voice raw. “When he saw the article he thought it was funny. He wasn’t scared or immediately on the phone talking damage control with Jessica. Because he’s straight and he doesn’t have anything to hide. It’s—it was _funny_ to him.”

“Oh.” _Oh, Kent._

“And I know that’s not your fault, and I shouldn’t have ignored you. I just needed time to sort out my head and I knew if I talked to you I’d probably say something stupid, so.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. I mean. Next time I’d like a text letting me know what’s going on. So I know you’re not hurt or something. Or mad at me.”

“I can do that.”

“Good.”

They both just breathe for a minute.

“Is your shoulder okay?” Eli asks.

Kent makes a confused noise.

“Second period. Eklund ran you into the boards pretty hard. Looked like you were favoring your right arm most of the third period.”

Kent doesn’t answer and Eli, still feeling off-center, wonders if he’s said something wrong.

“Kent?”

“Sorry. No. I mean, yes, my shoulder is okay. It was just a pinched nerve. A little massage and an epsom salts bath and I was fine for practice this morning. I’m just surprised you noticed. I thought I was hiding it pretty well.”

“Oh. Well. I know you.”

It comes out a little more honest than he means it to.

“Yeah,” Kent agrees, soft.

They both clear their throats, then laugh at their simultaneous awkwardness, and Eli suddenly misses Kent so much he’s not sure what to do with himself. He can’t just say it, because he doesn’t do things like that, but—

“I miss you,” Kent says, and Eli has to take a moment.

Maybe a couple of moments.

“Hey,” Kent says, “you still there?”

“Yeah, sorry. I, uh, miss you too.”

It’s stilted, but Kent sounds pleased anyway when he says, “I’m picking you up at the airport on Saturday afternoon.”

“Does that mean I should prepare myself for a small cheering section and too much glitter again?”

“No,” Kent says. “Just me.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“How’s Eric?” Kent asks.

“Good. Really good. He’s happy here and the boys are all—well. They’re hockey players—“ Kent laughs—“but they’re great. We’re doing Thanksgiving dinner with them at the Haus tonight and I’m looking forward to watching them all play tomorrow. What are you doing tonight?”

“Just takeout with Tater and Nicky. Everybody else has plans with family.”

He doesn’t sound upset about it, but Eli suddenly wishes he’s brought Kent with him. So he could wrap him in a scarf and feed him turkey and not have to _miss him_ even though it’s barely been 48 hours since he last saw Kent’s stupid crooked smile.

“I wish you were here,” Eli says. Because if Kent can make an effort he can too.

“That would probably be a disaster,” Kent answers. And oh. Right.

“I actually had an interesting conversation with Jack this morning,” Eli says. “He thought that I knew. About you. Y’all. Um. Being together.”

Kent doesn’t answer immediately but Eli is pretty sure he just needs time, so he waits.

“What did he say?” Kent asks, quiet and a little thready.

“Nothing much, just, he was apologizing to me I think? He said he knew what he did to you was messed up, because you weren’t in a very good place then either and Jack still had a support system without you, but you lost both your best friend _and_ your boyfriend when he cut you off.”

Kent makes a noise that makes Eli’s chest ache.

“He said that?”

“I mean, I’m paraphrasing, but yeah. He feels pretty bad, I think.”

“No,” Kent says, insistent. “I mean. He called me that? His _boyfriend_?”

“Yes?”

“Fuck. Okay.”

Eli gives him another minute.

“Okay,” he says again. “That’s—good to know. What, uh. What else did you talk about?”

“Not much. Once he realized I didn’t know about your history he didn’t want to say anything else. Though he did say you could tell me.”

“I wanted to,” Kent says, and he sounds exhausted. “But I felt guilty enough that I’d told Jeff when I got really drunk one time last year but—“ he takes a breath. “I do. Want to. Whenever you’re back.”

“Okay,” Eli agrees. “Jack also wants to get back in touch with you but wasn’t sure if you’d be okay with it. I said you might need time but would probably like that, which, if that’s not true I can—“

“No. You’re right. If you want to give him my number before you leave that would be okay.“

“Alright.”

Kent is quiet and Eli isn't sure if it’s a good kind or a bad kind of silence.

“Hey,” he says. “Are you alright?”

Kent breathes.

“I think so? I mean. I’m going to go call Anika the minute I hang up with you but. Yeah. I think I’m good.”

“Good. Well. You go call Anika. I have a turkey to cook.”

“Okay. Can we FaceTime tomorrow night after the game? Or will you be—“

“Yeah. Absolutely. Just let me know when.”

“Thanks. Say hi to Eric for me.”

“Will do. Bye, Kent.”

“Bye, Eli.”

***

It’s possibly the best Thanksgiving dinner Eli has ever had.

Between him and Eric and Shitty’s MasterCard they manage a turkey, dressing, salad, cornbread, fried okra, and a vegetable casserole that is comprised more of cheese than vegetables in the hopes that the boys will actually eat it. There’s also brownies and three different pies.

After dinner they take turns getting third and fourth servings of pie, drink terrible cheap beer and complain about how full they are. Hawke, exhausted from all the excitement, is asleep on Jack’s bed upstairs.

  


Eli is two beers in, considering going upstairs to join her, when Shitty slings an arm around his shoulders and ducks to nuzzle into his neck a little.

“I like you,” he says in a very indiscreet whisper. “You kept Bitty sane through the tribulations of southern youth so, I appreciate you for that.” He takes a drag on his joint, leaning his head against Eli’s shoulder. “You’re also like, very, very, pretty, my dude. I hope you’re aware.”

“Um,” Eli says, laughing a little. “Aren’t you straight?”

“For sure, bruh. Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the glorious aesthetics of your visage, though.”

“Ah. Okay.”

“Which, I gotta say. You are quite possibly the most beautiful specimen of a man I have ever seen."

There’s a chorus of offended “hey!”s from the other assembled men in the room.

“Don’t get me wrong, bros,” Shitty says, stepping away from Eli’s side. You’re all killing it. I mean, Rans’s got the cheekbones, and Holster—that jawline. Bitty has the whole all-american-boy thing going on and Jack—well—“ Jack neatly sidesteps the slap that Shitty aims for his ass. “But Eli. Bro. Brother. Brethren. Your whole look is just so—“

“If you say ‘exotic’ I will punch you.”

“I would NEVER,” Shitty says, aghast. “Lardo would murder me from a continent away. Oh, man. Lardo would love to paint you. With your—neck and collarbones and shit. You should come back next semester. Actually, no. Don’t. You’re too pretty. ”

“Who’s Lardo? Eli asks, bemused.

“Team manager,” Eric says.

“Is _he_ gay?”

“She,” Shitty interrupts, “does not believe in the bullshit heteronormative social constrains of gender or sexuality. And I salute her.” He does, with his joint. Then sighs. “I’m gunna go send her an email.”

“You do that,” Eric agrees.

Their conversation devolves into a discussion of the kegster they plan to throw the following night and who will probably attend: general consensus is most of the swim team since they had a meet, and both men and women’s soccer teams since a good portion of them are from out of country.

“Wait,” Eli says. “I thought you hated the soccer team?”

“Oh, no,” Eric corrects. “We’re good with the soccer team. It’s the lacrosse team we have a problem with.”

“FUUUUCK THE LAX BROS,” everyone choruses—Shitty, upstairs, a few seconds behind everyone else.

Eli drinks to that because he feels like he aught to.

“Hey,” Johnson says. “This narrative could use some music. Why don’t you put your Beyonce playlist on, Bitty?”

“Ugh. No, sir,” Eric says from where he’s sprawled on the couch, a red solo cup balanced on his sternum. “I am way too full to dance.”

“You sure?” Eli says.

“So sure.”

Eli gestures for Johnson to hand him his backpack, then squishes onto the couch between the arm rest and Eric’s head.

Eli withdraws the Loubitton box from his bag and swaps it for the cup resting on Eric’s chest.

“You really sure?”

“Oh my God,” Eric says.

“Oh my God,” Holster repeats, half-sitting up from where he’s laying on the floor. “RANS!” He yells toward to the kitchen, where Ransom is getting more pie. “Rans! He brought the shoes! You owe me twenty dollars!”

“ _You brought the shoes_ ,” Eric says, eyes wide. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me?!”

“Surprise?”

Eric sits up and removes them from the box slowly, touching the stiletto heels with reverent fingers.

“Yes,” he says, a little breathless. “I think you’re right, Johnson. It’s time for Beyonce.”

Eli and Eric do the single ladies dance together because, well, obviously, but then Eli lets Eric have his fun as the center of attention, taking turns dancing with the other boys and generally enjoying the hell out of himself.

Eli gets himself a third slice of pumpkin pie and leans against the door jamb of the kitchen to eat it, watching as Eric, now wearing a pair of tiny shorts with his oversized knit sweater, grinds to “Partition” with Shitty on top of the coffee table.

His calf muscles look fantastic, Eli thinks absently. All of him does. Clearly an NCAA training regiment has added some muscle to his frame, which is both evident and compelling as he moves—his body spangled with red and green from newly erected Christmas lights around the windows. Eli wonders, briefly, if this is what Kent would look like dancing: a golden-haired icon of confidence—a fierce brightness in a dark room.

He notices Jack watching Eric similarly from the other side of the couch, eyes hooded, leaning against the wall next to the stairwell.

Eli pushes off the kitchen door frame, makes his way across the room and stops, right next to him, leaning a little further into Jack’s space than he probably would have without the two beers in his system.

He takes his time licking the tines of his fork clean.

“You have a type, Mr. Zimmerman,” Eli murmurs.

Jack ducks his head, sheepish, but doesn’t take his eyes off Eric.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I guess I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D
> 
> Early chapter this week to make up for the late chapter last week. And next week...well. The pining will come to head. I mean. The slow burn can only last so long before combustion, amirite?
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> I got an A on my in-class midterm which is a significant relief and my final paper proposals were approved, so I can now go get to work on those! I have less than a month until the semester is over which is both baffling (wasn't it just summer?) and scary. Next semester is my last semester of coursework, I've declared my focus and my exams committee, and I start putting together my reading lists for exams in January. This whole PhD thing is getting real, y'all.


	19. Chapter 19

The day after Thanksgiving, the Aces tally another loss, this time against the Sharks. It’s a frustrating battle against injuries—a slash to Nicky’s hand that broke two fingers, a sprained ankle for Jeff, a collision that resulted in a concussion for Dirks—and a confluence of bad calls. It comes down to a shootout and Coots blames himself for the loss. Kent spends the first five minutes after the game trying to convince the kid that drowning himself in the San Jose locker room shower is not the best course of action.

Tater takes Kent’s place after a while, a wide hand on Coot’s hunched back, and Kent returns to his own stall to pull off his jersey. It’s half over his head, snagged on his chest protector, when he hears the new trade, Justin Matthews—dubbed Matts by the team—swearing about the ref’s shitty calls.

_Fucking cocksucker._

Kent doesn’t even flinch.

He’s used to it. Hell, he’s said the same thing, and worse, countless times up until the previous year, but Jeff goes still beside him, mid-conversation with Rushy.

“Its okay,” Kent mutters, still tangled in his jersey.

Either Jeff doesn’t hear him or elects to ignore him. Probably the latter.

“Hey, Matts,” Jeff says, casual. “You like getting your dick sucked?”

Matts pauses in his diatribe. “Uh. Yeah?” he says, laughing a little uncomfortably.

“I’m assuming you don’t mind when your girlfriend does it, right?”

Matts half-stands. “The fuck are you—“

“I just mean—you wouldn’t call _her_ a cocksucker. Not like it’s an insult. You still respect her and shit?

‘The fuck? Of course I wouldn’t. I don’t know what your problem is, but—“

“So it isn’t the actual cock-sucking you have a problem with, then. It’s the idea of a man doing it.”

“What—no. That’s not—you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How did you mean it, then?”

Matts glances around the locker room, obviously looking for support, but doesn’t get any. At best, people are just watching, at worst—Tater, Rushy, Coots—they’re glaring.

“It was just a joke,” he says.

“Nah,” Jeff says, and goes back to stripping out of his pads. “It was an insult. One that doesn’t have any place coming out of your mouth. I tell kids every summer that being gay doesn’t have to prevent them from playing professional hockey. That it’s a much more accepting sport, now. That locker rooms aren’t the shitty, homophobic places they used to be. Don’t make me liar, man.”

Matts swallows but doesn’t say anything.

“It’s not a big deal,” Jeff continues, gentler. “You probably didn’t realize how problematic it was before. But now you do. Cool?”

“Yeah, man.”

“Good.”

“So,” Jeff turns his attention back to Rushy. “You were saying?”

The noise level ratchets right back up again and Kent lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding as he finishes stripping down. He leans into Jeff’s space for a moment before heading for the showers.

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

Jeff punches him in the shoulder.

They don’t get back to the hotel until nearly ten pm. Coots is still with Tater, probably drinking too much at the bar downstairs, but they don’t have another game for four days, so Kent is pretending he has no idea what they’re up to.

He sharing a room with Jeff and decides to take another shower while Jeff calls Alex because it was the kind of game he wants to scrub off his skin.

Then, because Jeff is still on the phone, Kent pulls a hoodie on over his boxers and T-shirt and wanders his way to the pool on the roof outside. There’s no one there and his legs are a little chilly in the breeze. He sits on one of the chaise lounges and stares up at the stars for a few minutes, trying not to be too melodramatic and ultimately failing.

He gets out his phone and pulls up the last conversation he’d had with Eli. There’s been two subsequent messages from Eli since Kent sent his usual pre-game text, one railing against a call at the end of the third period, which makes Kent smile, and a sad-faced emoji at the end of game.

_Hey_ he types. _u awake? I’m still down to FT if u are._

His phone rings with an incoming video call less than a minute later and he leans back, the night already feeling slightly less dire, as he swipes to accept.

Eli is grinning at him, hair a mess and what looks to be the remains of glitteryface paint smeared around his temples but Kent—

Kent’s stomach goes sour.

“Are you in Jack’s bed?” he asks. And he can barely get the words out. Because he knows those sheets. He knows the comforter around Eli’s shoulders. He knows them intimately. They’re the same bedclothes Jack has had since he started billeting at fifteen—when his host mother dragged him to the store and bought four different packages of the same bed-in-a-bag because she knew his terrible teenage laundry quirks but she also knew Jack was a creature of habit. Kent wonders if Jack still switches sheets every Thursday like he used to, if any of the sets have worn out at the corners yet, if Jack still lets a month go by before he actually washes his massive pile of laundry.

“Yeah,” Eli says, oblivious to the fact that Kent’s hands have gone clammy and his heart is beating like he’s just finished a double shift on the power play.

“Jack let Eric and I have his room for the night. He’s staying with Shitty. Look, Hawke says hi.”

He shifts the phone so Kent can see Hawke at the foot of the bed. He can also clearly see that Eli is alone in the room.

“Hi,” Kent says weakly.

“I’m the only one upstairs,” Eli continues, words blurred at the edges from alcohol or fatigue or both. “I got a little overwhelmed and decided to call it a night an hour or so ago. I listened to the end of the game. Sucks.”

“Yeah,” Kent agrees, still trying to get his breath back.

“How was the Samwell game?” Kent asks. “Google said they won.”

“They did! Eric didn’t get to play much—just a couple minutes. But he got an assist, and he didn’t look like he was afraid of getting checked, so.”

Eli sighs, repositioning his phone so it’s propped against the pillow, and then pulls Jack’s comforter more closely around his body.

“All the boys did really well. Ransom and Holster are something else, and Jack is—well. He could be in the NHL right now.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a distant crash followed by excited yelling in the background and Eli glances toward the closed door behind him, grinning. Kent’s chest gets tight. In a better way than before.

“I’ve never been to a party like this before,” Eli says, “because I didn’t want to gamble with leaving Hawke. Its fun. Being—“ he gestures vaguely. “Young. Stupid. I mean, I wouldn’t want to all the time. But.”

Kent curls on his side, wishing he’d though to put on pants. Who knew that California could get so cold at night?

“So you’re having fun?” he asks.

“Yeah. So much. Thanks for the tickets. Oh, and Eric says thanks for the shoes. He’s wearing them right now, said he was going to—“ Eli cuts himself off with a yawn and it’s cute as hell—“get as much time with them as he could before I get full custody again.”

Kent frowns a little at that. “Should we get him his own pair?”

Eli’s face screws up for a moment and then—then Eli is laughing at him.

“ _What_?”

It’s not really laughing, actually, it’s giggling, and Kent wonders how much, exactly, Eli has had to drink.

“Seriously, what?”

“Nothing,” Eli says, “You’re just so _good_.” His smile dims a little. “It’s not fair.”

“I’m…sorry?”

“No, that’s not—“ Eli makes an irritated noise, pressing his palms to his eyes, then dragging both hands through his hair. “Never mind.”

The giggles come back while Kent is trying to figure out how to respond to that.

“Oh my god,” he says, a little exasperated but smiling despite himself. “What now?”

“I think Eric will have his own Louboutins by Christmas anyway,” Eli says, tone conspiratorial. “Jack very awkwardly asked me where to buy a pair about an hour ago when Eric was dancing with some soccer player to Nelly. Jack was practically salivating but also like, ready to go defend Eric’s honor if the guy got too handsy. You should have seen his face.” Eli dissolves into laughter again and Kent isn’t sure what his feelings are doing.

“Oh shit,” Eli says abruptly. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Is that—are you okay?”

He leans closer to the phone, eyes bleary but concerned and Kent wants to touch him so badly he sits up so he has something to do with his hands.

“I’m fine,” he says, and it’s true. “I haven’t been in love with Jack for a long time.”

“Okay,” it doesn’t look like Eli believes him. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, subdued.

Kent shifts position with a shiver, tucking one arm ineffectively around his body.

“Eli,” he says.

“Hm?”

“When you first called me a minute ago I almost had a heart attack.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I recognized Jack’s sheets. And you were drunk and in his bed and I know it was stupid but my first thought—“

“What? _No_.”

“But I didn’t—“ Kent takes a studied breath. “If it was true. If you _had_ slept with him. I wouldn’t have been jealous of _you_ ,” Kent says slowly, trying to make sure Eli understands. “I would have been jealous of _Jack_.”

Eli doesn’t say anything and Kent closes his eyes because he doesn’t want to see Eli’s expression. Because this isn’t a conversation they should be having when Eli is drunk and Kent is three thousand miles alway. It isn’t a conversation they should be having _at all_ —

“Kent.”

“Hm?”

“I’m not sober enough to do this right now.”

He sounds sad, which makes Kent feel even worse.

“I know. I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

“Well,” Eli muses. “I guess we’re even now, then.”

Kent has a sudden visceral memory of Eli in his bed, asking him what he’d most regret not telling someone and—

“Yeah,” Kent says wryly. “Guess so.”

“Wait,” Eli says, “How long has Jack had these sheets?”

Kent laughs a little helplessly.

“Juniors.”

“ _What_?”

And then they’re both laughing, and it’s not exactly a relief but Kent is able to breathe a little easier.

Eli squints at him.

“Are you shivering?”

Kent makes a studied effort to stop.

“No.”

“Kenneth.”

“Not my name.”

“Kent Virgil Parson.” Which. Yes. That is his name. “Go inside right now. The last thing we need is you getting sick.”

“Fine. You should go to sleep.”

“Okay.”

“Drink some water first, though.”

“ _Okay_.”

“I’ll see you at the airport tomorrow.”

“Okay. Goodnight, Kent.”

“Goodnight, Eli.”

***

Kent sits next to Jeff on the plane for the flight home early the next morning.

“You look terrible,” Jeff tells him pleasantly. “You want to call Eli and flirt for a few minutes to cheer yourself up?”

“It’s five AM,” Kent grouses. “Even with the time difference he would kill me.”

He thinks, a little anxiously, about the degree of slur in Eli’s speech the night before.

“I hope he’s not hungover today,” Kent says, more to himself than Jeff.

Jeff makes a disgusted noise.

“Also,” Kent says, lowering his voice, “I don’t flirt with him. There’s no flirting.”

Jeff wordlessly opens his photo reel and hands over his phone.

Kent gets three pictures in and flushes.

“How do you keep taking these without me noticing?”

“Flirting,” Jeff repeats.

“Yeah,” Kent admits, continuing to scroll. “Maybe a little.”

“You’re picking him up at the airport tonight, right?”

“Mhm.”

“You want company?”

Kent tries to figure out a nice way to say no and Jeff laughs.

“Never mind. I can tell when I’m not wanted.”

“That’s not—“

“It’s fine. I understand.”

Kent hands back Jeff’s phone and pulls out his own. Eli will probably wake up before they touch down in Vegas so he composes a basic “good morning” text and follows it with a _see you tonight!!_

“Do you think two exclamation marks are excessive?” he asks.

“Oh yeah,” Jeff says sagely, “He’ll for sure know you’re in love with him, now.”

Kent shoves an elbow into Jeff’s side.

“I don’t know why I’m friends with you.”

“Because no one else will put up with your shit.”

“True,” Kent admits, and that feels a little to honest for comfort.

Jeff slings an arm around him. “I have a gift for you,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Permission to sleep on my shoulder for the duration of this flight.”

“How is that different from any other flight?”

“I have another gift for you.”

“Okay?”

“An invitation to shut the hell up.”

“Thanks,” Kent says seriously. “I hate it.”

He leans his temple against Jeff anyway.

Jeff grumbles something about ungrateful children, but doesn’t push him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I ended up having to cut this chapter into two chapters because it was so long.   
> Which means The Moment You've All Been Waiting For won't happen until next chapter. Sorry! It's written and ready for editing/posting next week, though. So your patience will soon be rewarded. 
> 
> Captain's Log:  
> If you're an American--happy Thanksgiving! If you're anyone else or you don't buy into the capitalist hegemony of imperialist "tradition,"--happy Thursday! I'm spending the day with my parents, eating all of the things and working on my least-fun final paper (gotta save the best for last, u know). The rest of my extended family will descend upon the household tomorrow, where I will continue to eat all the things but also drink wine and hold my tongue. See you next Thursday!


	20. Chapter 20

Sometimes Kent wants Eli so badly it's like resisting a physical confrontation. Like a fight on the ice in the third period of a playoff game. Like someone has a hand in his jersey and is dragging him forward and he knows it’s going to end in a fist to the face, gloves off and bloody, but there’s nothing he can do to stop it, just maybe delay it a little. Because it’s going to fucking hurt when it’s over.

It’s all Kent can do not to kiss him when Eli comes down the arrivals staircase. Instead, he hugs him. Well. It’s a little excessive for a hug. ‘Picks him up and shoves his face in his sternum’ might be a little more accurate but —

“Kent Parson, you put me down right now.”

“What,” Kent says, grinning up at him, arms tight around Eli’s hips. “Tater can do it but I can’t?”

“I’m not afraid that Tater is going to drop me.”

“EXCUSE YOU?”

Eli laughs, stealing Kent’s hat and settling it, backwards, on his own head.

Kent puts him down so he can take it back because he’d left the house in a hurry and his hair is a mess.

That’s when he notices the man with a camera.

He’s standing just to the side of the first rental car kiosk, all the way on the other side of the baggage claim atrium. The telephoto lens on his camera tells Kent that his presence there isn’t an accident.

“What?” Eli asks, but notices where Kent is looking before he can respond.

Eli takes a deliberate step away from him, expression shuttering, and Kent is abruptly furious.

He slings an arm around Eli’s shoulders because he’s pissed and feeling reckless. “Ignore him,” he says, pulling Eli tight to his side. “Let’s go get your bags.”

Eli glances up at him, uncertain, but doesn’t pull away. “Okay.”

The pictures are on the internet before they even get back to Kent’s place.

Kent knows this because his phone starts ringing as they’re waiting to pull into the parking garage.

“It was like fifteen minutes ago,” Kent answers in lieu of a greeting.

Jessica’s silence is judgmental. How, he isn’t sure. But it definitely is.

“Tater did the same exact thing and he didn’t get in trouble,” Kent says before she has a chance to say anything. “I should be allowed to hug my—uh. Eli. Without people freaking out about my goddamn sexuality.”

He realizes he’s whining. It’s fine.

“First,” she says, “You’re not ‘in trouble.’ If you want to pick up your friend at the airport—literally—“ she adds, sotto voice, “that’s your prerogative. I’m just here to talk to you about public reception and potentially mitigating speculation.”

“So?” Kent says. Well, sighs, really.

He wedges the phone between his ear and shoulder so he can roll down the car window and scan his fob for the garage gate.

“So Eli’s pictures with Alexei last week were actually helpful. Obviously it’s early, but the journalist who published the pictures, and most comments so far, seem to think that you’re intentionally messing with the press at this point. It also helped that you looked right at the camera before you put your arm around his shoulder.”

“Oh…kay?”

“Of course there are those who speculate that you’ve employed Alexei’s help in covering up the fact that you're in a relationship with Eli, but we can deal with that.”

Kent rolls his window back up.

“Why do they think it’s me hiding a relationship and not Tater?”

Eli, quiet until then in the passenger seat, sucks in a breath.

Jessica doesn’t respond for a moment.

“ _What?_ ” Kent says.

“You’ve never had a girlfriend,” Jessica says. “You’ve never even been seen spending one-on-one time with a woman. Never been caught on a walk of shame or accused of being a playboy. And, for all your ill-advised exploits your rookie year, you’ve never been photographed in a compromising position with a woman. Ever. Do you know how unusual it is, that I’ve not once had photographs of you groping some girl in a club come across my desk? Which—don’t get me wrong—I’m very happy about that, but people who have been paying attention to your past are all too happy to point out that you have zero history with dating, or even hooking up with, the opposite gender. Alexei, on the other hand…”

Kent sighs.

Tater is a serial monogamist. Who loves quickly, and wholly, and documents the minutia of his affection across various social media platforms until the relationships end. There’s no question that Tater loves women.

“There’s also—“ she pauses, and Kent doesn’t like the sound of that at all.

“There’s also Jack Zimmerman.”

Kent wrenches the steering wheel a little too sharply as he’s turning the corner and flails for a moment, dropping the phone, as he tries not to sideswipe a Mercedes.

He curses while Eli leans over the center console to retrieve it.

“Hey. Sorry. Dropped my phone. What about Jack?”

Eli stills beside him.

“No one has published anything yet, but I did a little digging myself. Just to cover our bases. You two weren’t exactly subtle, in juniors. It’s like I said before—little things add up. And if someone ever decides to compile all the little pictures and interviews and Instagram posts…it might be compelling enough for people to take notice, is all I’m saying. Which is why you need to be careful. Provided—“

“Provided I don’t want to come out,” Kent says.

“Yes,” Jessica agrees. “Though if that ever changes—“

“Right.”

“Okay.”

Kent pulls into his parking space and just leans on the steering wheel for a minute.

“Okay. Thanks. Keep me posted, I guess? I just got home and—“

“I’m assuming Eli is with you?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Go enjoy your evening. We can talk more later.”

Kent hangs up but doesn’t move.

“Should I ask?” Eli says.

“It’s not a big deal,” Kent says, turning off the car. “Just. Jessica was warning me that there’s speculation. That we’re—you and me—are together and Tater is like, trying to help throw people off or something.”

“Oh.”

“Apparently my history doesn’t really help things.”

“History?”

“I’ve never had a girlfriend. And all the old media from juniors with me and Jack is a little damning, I guess.”

He takes off his hat, scrubbing a hand through his hair before replacing it. “I’ve never been good at hiding how I feel.”

“That’s…not a bad thing,” Eli says. “Normally.”

“Yeah,” Kent agrees. “Normally. Come on, I don’t want to think about this anymore. Lets go.”

Kent pauses as he’s pulling Eli’s suitcase out of the back hatch. “Oh. Are you staying tonight or should I—I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask if you wanted to come here, I just assumed. Do you want to go back to your dorm? I can take you now. Or maybe after we’ve eaten?”

Eli reaches for the side handle on the bag and helps Kent pull it all the way out.

“I was planning to stay here tonight, if that’s okay.”

“Oh. Good. Cool. Yes.”

They’re quiet on the way up to Kent’s apartment, elbows bumping in the elevator.

Once inside, Eli takes off Hawke’s vest and Kent immediately drops into a crouch to say hi. She locates her braided rope toy under the couch and they roll around the kitchen floor while Eli goes to shower the airplane off his skin.

Eventually Kent’s arms get tired of playing tug-o-war and he lays on the rug, face-up, letting Hawke use him as a pillow while she chews triumphantly on her rope—the knotted end occasionally whacking Kent in the face. He loves it.

Eli, barefooted, damp, and smiling, finds them there a few minutes later.

He’s wearing Kent’s clothes. The t-shirt is one he’s had for years, over-washed and soft, the collar separated in places—and Kent has to close his eyes for a minute.

“Hawke missed you,” Eli says, sitting next to Kent’s head.

“I missed her too.” He shifts Hawke off his chest and onto the floor so he can sit up. “Are you hungry?”

“Not really. Just tired. It was a good visit but it was also...a lot.“

“I understand.”

Eli’s phone buzzes on the counter and he stands to retrieve it, huffing out a laugh as he returns again. He sits closer this time, cross-legged, one bare knee touching Kent’s hip. His skin is still flushed from the hot water. He smells like Kent’s soap and Kent can’t decide if he loves it or hates it.

“I’m sorry,” Eli says, looking at his phone.

Kent takes a moment to refocus.

“Hmm?”

“Tater just sent me some screen caps of gossip articles, pretending to be jealous.”

“Jealous about what?”

“About how you and I have some sort of epic hidden romance. Which, I know this is what you were trying to avoid but it’s also—“ He shrugs a little helplessly.

“It’s also what?”

“It’s nice. That people think, you know. That.”

“What?”

“That someone would want me. That someone like _you_ would want me.”

The look on Eli’s face—a little embarrassed, a little pleased—makes Kent feel like he’s just been punched in the stomach.

And suddenly he’s angry.

“I need you to do me a favor and never say anything like that ever again,” he says.

Eli laughs, but it’s self-deprecating. And Kent just. Can’t handle it anymore.

It’s not graceful.

There’s a dog in between them and Eli’s mouth is half-open because he’s about to say something else but Kent just.

Kisses him.

In an awkward half-lunge with one hand braced on the floor and the other moving to turn Eli’s face into his and it’s—

Well. It’s not graceful. But it is _good._

At least until Eli shoves him away.

“What are you _doing_?” he says, standing with none of his usual grace.

Kent stands too because it seems like the thing to do.

“I don’t know,” he admits. And it occurs to him now how horribly, horribly, stupid that was.

“I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m sorry. But your face—“

“My _face_?! What does that even—”

Eli paces into the kitchen, leaning both hands on the island, and Kent follows because of course he does.

“You drive me _crazy,_ ” Kent says. “All the time. And then you say things like you think you’re somehow less than me or—or anyone else. And it’s stupid. Because you’re—“ he gestures wordlessly, unable to describe everything that makes Eli so—“you’re _you_. And that’s. The best thing. Anyone would be lucky to have you. _I_ would be lucky to have you. Not, like, the other way around.”

“ _What?_ ” Eli says. Well. Yells.

“What _what_?” Kent answers.

Hawke, baffled and a little concerned, sits up to watch them.

“You can’t say you’d be ‘lucky to have me’ when you _don’t want me_ , that’s bullshit, Kent.”

“I don’t—what are you talking about? Of course I do.”

“No,” Eli says, “No you don’t. Because you _said_. You said that you weren’t willing to risk your career and that you wouldn’t date anyone until you were retired.”

“Well yeah but I’d only known you for like a week at that point. How was I supposed to know that you’d—that you’re—”

“That I’m _what_?”

“That you’d be worth it! Maybe. I don’t know. And what about _you_? You said you wouldn’t be okay with dating someone who wasn’t out.”

“Well,” Eli says, sounding a little winded. “That’s. I could say the same thing.”

“Say the same thing as what?”

“ _That maybe you’d be worth it,”_ Eli shouts.

“Well _fuck_ ,” Kent says.

“Yeah.”

“So.”

Eli exhales, sliding down the side of the island to sit with his back braced against it. After a moment of consideration, Kent joins him, pressed shoulder to shoulder, breathing unsteady.

Hawke happily moves to drape herself across their laps and they both reach out to pet her automatically.

Neither of them say anything for several seconds.

“So what if we—tried,” Eli says, attention on his fingers sifting through Hawke’s thick winter coat.

Kent opens his mouth and closes it again. “I’m going to need more than that.”

“We could try. Like. Being together. I guess.”

“But you don’t—“

“Well _you don’t_ either, but.”

“Yeah.”

_This isn’t actually a conversation_ , Kent thinks a little hysterically.

“We’d just. Keep it a secret? And…see?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure you’re okay with that?” Kent asks.

“Yes.”

“You shouldn’t have to be anyone’s secret.”

“Well. You shouldn’t have to keep me a secret but the world sucks. So.”

There’s this feeling of rising—euphoria, maybe? that’s hot in the back of Kent’s throat, like maybe this can actually happen, maybe he does get to have this after all, but he tries to push it down, at least momentarily, in favor of rational thought.

“What if we’re a disaster?” he says. “Apart from Jeff you’re my best friend and I don’t want to fuck that up.”

Eli leans into him a little, thinking.

“We’ll just agree not to let things get weird. If it doesn’t work we’ll be awkward for a couple weeks and then everything will go back to normal.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Kent breathes for a moment. Because things _not_ working isn’t actually his biggest concern. And he could leave it. He doesn’t have to talk about it now. But he should. Because he learned the hard way that letting someone in doesn’t mean they’ll stay.

“And what if it’s great?” he asks.

“Then that’s…good?”

“No, I mean. What if we’re perfect together. And shits like, real. And nobody knows.”

Eli bites his lip.

He doesn’t say anything for several seconds which is a comfort. Because it means he’s actually thinking about it.

“I’m not sure I could do that indefinitely,” he says finally. “Waiting until you retired, or whatever. I think I would get mad. Resent you. If I tried. So. I’d have to know there was an end point. Even if the timeline was years and not months.”

“How many years?”

“Kent. We haven’t even—“

“No,” he says, insistent. “I’m not starting something if it’s just going to fall apart because of—“

“Three,” Eli interrupts. “Three years, max. By the time I graduate.”

“Okay.” Kent says.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. If things work.” He rubs his palms down Hawke’s spine, trying to get his hands to stop shaking. “I think I could be ready by then. I’m not now. But I could be, eventually. For a good reason.”

“I’m a good reason?”

“Best one I’ve found.”

“Holy shit. That was smooth.”

Kent laughs, which was probably Eli’s goal. “Thanks.”

Eli loops his arm through Kent’s, resting his head against Kent’s shoulder, and drags the knuckles of his opposite hand up and down the soft skin of Kent’s inner bicep.

“I’m assuming you need a minute?” he says.

And Kent does. Because this is big. This is huge. And the happiness in his gut is tempered by warranted fear.

“Do you need to call Anika?” Eli asks.

Kent’s first reaction is anger. Because that shouldn’t even be a question. It’s not fair that he lives in a world where getting something he wants—something he wants _so badly_ —also necessitates a talk with a goddamn therapist. His second reaction, though, is overwhelming affection. Because Eli is probably freaking out just as much as he is right now but Eli is still trying to take care of him and that’s—good.

“No. I’ll call her tomorrow. Thanks, though.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Eli clears his throat. “So. We’ve been very mature and rational about this whole thing, I think.”

“Yeah?”

“Which is great. But could we maybe not? For a minute?”

Kent doesn’t understand.

“I don’t understand.”

“Well all this talking about the future and stuff is uh, healthy. But—“ Eli licks his lips, then bites them, then makes an embarrassed noise.

Oh.

Kent grins.

“You want to make out like a couple of teenagers for a while?”

Eli grins back at him. “Yes, please.”

“I’d be okay with that,” Kent says magnanimously.

Eli leans over to snag Hawke’s rope toy and tosses it into the living room. The moment she scrambles after it, skidding a little on the concrete floor, Eli climbs into Kent’s newly vacated lap.

Kent’s hands settle automatically at Eli’s waist, palms cupping the lean swell of his hips, thumbs pressed to the sharp jut of his hipbones, nails dragging, light, against the warm skin just beneath the hem of his shirt. His hands move without him really telling them to—up the taut muscle of Eli’s sides, fingers settling briefly in the trenches of his ribs as Eli inhales sharply.

There’s so much of him that Kent wants to touch and he _can_ because it’s allowed now and—

Eli reaches for Kent’s face, laughing, and Kent remembers, a little belatedly, that he’s supposed to be kissing him.

“Hi,” Kent says.

“Hi,” Eli agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> Finals are upon us. Tomorrow is my last day of coursework and then I have one week of prep before I must grade my student's final papers and turn in my own, as well as sit one 3-hour in-person exam. I'll be done with everything as of December 13th.
> 
> The next chapter is not finished yet, and it's unlikely I'll have time to write this weekend. Worst case, I won't have anything new for you until after the 13th, but I'm actually a little ahead of the deadlines I made for myself RE final paper work, so hopefully I can get at least one update in between now and then and I'll keep weekly updates through the holidays. Thanks for your patience!


	21. Chapter 21

Eli wakes up to Hawke’s insistent nose in his face.

This isn’t particularly unusual.

What is unusual is the fact that he’s being pretty aggressively spooned by one Kent Parson. Kent’s left arm is tucked tightly around Eli’s ribcage and Eli gets caught up for a moment staring down at the little white scar on Kent’s first knuckle, the subtle map of veins embossed on the back of his hand, the fine blonde hair on his forearm, pale and bright in the water-color light of early morning desert sun. There’s something revelatory about Kent’s sleep-slack fingers—still curled in an approximation of a fist in the fabric of Eli’s shirt, and—

Hawke makes a disgruntled noise and Eli sighs, extricating himself from Kent’s various clinging limbs. He steals Kent’s hoodie and keys from counter, and squints his way down the elevator and out to the dog relief area.

He’s still mostly asleep when they get back to the apartment a few minutes later, and he makes it as far as opening the guest bedroom door, resisting the urge to climb back into bed with Kent, before realizing he doesn’t have to resist anymore.

And holy shit.

That is _the best feeling_.

“Hey,” Kent murmurs as Eli squirms his way under the sheets again. “Hawke?”

“Yeah.”

“Time isit?”

“Six.”

Kent makes grabby hands toward him and Eli tucks himself back against Kent’s chest, face-to-face this time.

“Hey,” Kent says again, blinking slowly at him. “You’re here.”

“Uh. Yeah?”

“Good. You should always be here.”

And then he’s tugging Eli into a sleepy, off-center kiss which is cute right up until Kent pulls away a moment later and whispers in his ear, “your breath is rank.”

Eli shoves Kent’s face away. “Yours ain’t so great either.”

“Oh it _ain’t_?”

“Shut up. At least I brushed my teeth last night unlike _someone_.”

“Don’t be like that,” Kent grouses. “The southern-y thing you do when you’re mad is adorable though, just so you know.”

“‘Southern-y’ isn’t a word.”

“Oh and ‘aint’ _is_?”

Eli hits Kent with a pillow.

The ensuing pillow fight is short-lived because Hawke gets involved and then they’re sneezing and picking feathers out of each other’s hair and Kent bemoans the passive-aggressive note he knows the maid will leave him while Eli drags him for having a maid at all.

They brush their teeth and Eli puts a record on and they make pancakes together—or more accurately Eli makes pancakes and Kent drapes himself over Eli’s back, making commentary on his flipping technique and pressing occasional minty kisses to the nape of his neck.

Kent’s eyes are kind of puffy and there are pillow creases on his cheek and his hair is an absolute mess and it shouldn’t be a big deal because Eli has spent plenty of mornings with Kent before. But never this close. Never this real. So it is kind of a big deal, after all.

He takes a deep breath and tries to focus.

“So,” Eli says, pouring batter out of the bowl and into the skillet. “Can you take me by my dorm first to drop off my suitcase before we go to the rink? I don’t want to deal with hauling it around all day.”

“Or you can just leave it here,” Kent says into his shoulder.

Eli shifts his weight from one foot to the other and Kent sways with him.

“I can leave some things, but—“

He isn’t sure how to say it. But he needs to. He can’t just—

“I wasn’t planning on coming back here after class today.”

Kent straightens, pulling away from him.

“Right. Of course.”

“Hey. Wait.”

He catches Kent’s wrist in the hand not occupied with a spatula, and tugs him back. He rubs his thumb against the knob of Kent’s wrist bone because it seems appropriately conciliatory.

“Remember when we were doing the questions thing? From my psychology homework?”

“Yeah?”

“I told you then—one of the things you’d need to know if we were going to have a close relationship is that I need space sometimes, especially after I’ve been around a lot of people for an extended period of time and after the last week—“

“You’re all peopled out?”

“I am _so_ peopled out. I’m also behind on my homework. And after last night…I just need some processing time.”

“Right. Okay. So. You haven’t changed your mind?”

“ _No_. God no.”

“How much, uh, time do you think you’ll need? Should I—will it bother you if I text you, or?”

“No, please, text me. And probably just a day or so.”

“Okay.” Kent reels Eli in closer again, tentative at first, then a little more confidently when Eli goes willingly. He links his fingers behind Eli’s lower back, still swaying a little to the music.

“So. Obviously you can say no and I won’t be like, mad or anything. But do you maybe want to go to the game on Wednesday? Swoops is out with his ankle so you could sit with him and Alex in a private box.”

Eli rests his hands on Kent’s chest, trying not to smear batter from the spatula on his shirt.

“Yeah. That would be great. I’ve been wanting to go to a game in person for a while now.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool.” He takes a steadying breath. A Mindful Breath, Eli thinks.

“It would be important to me,” Kent says slowly. “If you went.”

“Then I’ll be there.”

He grins: the big, honest, krinkly-eyed smile that the media never gets and leans down to press a chaste kiss to Eli’s mouth.

It doesn’t stay chaste long.

Eli isn’t really sure what happens. One second he’s chasing Kent’s mouth for a quick second kiss and then he’s sitting on the counter with Kent’s hips between his splayed thighs, ankles hooked behind Kent’s waist, fingers knotted in his hair. The spatula is…somewhere, and one of Kent’s hands is pushed up the leg of Eli’s boxers, palming the curve of his ass and—

And Eli gathers enough presence of mind to push Kent away, breathing hard.

Kent looks a weird combination of sheepish and turned on and Eli just. Can’t. He slides off the counter, and then nearly to the floor because apparently his balance is a little off and Kent steadies him, going from flushed arousal to concern in .03 seconds.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Eli glances at the stove and winces. “Pancakes aren’t, though.”

He bins the pan’s blackened contents, finds the spatula on the floor—licked clean by an unrepentant Hawke—and sets about starting the process over while Kent hovers anxiously behind him, no longer touching, but a warm, distracting, presence that makes him want to abandon breakfast all together and just drag him back into the bedroom and—

Eli takes a breath and pours a new round of batter into the pan.

He turns to face Kent and licks his bottom lip, which feels a little tender and puffy and probably looks that way too judging by the way Kent is staring at his mouth.

“So,” Eli says. “Uh. That talking thing? We should probably do that. About,” he gestures between them because apparently saying “sex” in the early morning light of Kent Parson’s kitchen is beyond him, despite the fact that they were just grinding against each other a few minutes before. Its fine. He’s a teenager and hasn’t reached full maturity yet or whatever.

“We should talk about sex?” Kent asks, because clearly that extra 2 years makes a difference.

“Yes?”

“Okay.”

Kent moves a little closer, pulling Eli flush against him again and then looks down at him expectantly and Eli regrets all of his life choices.

“Maybe you could start?” Eli says.

“Uh,” Kent says, a little bemused. “I’m in favor? Of the sex.”

Eli coughs on a laugh, exhaling, and lets his forehead fall forward to rest against Kent’s collarbone. He smells good.

“Noted.”

“Are you also in favor of the sex?” Kent asks.

“I’m. Not opposed?”

Kent smirks, hitching one thigh a little where its pressed against Eli’s dick and yes, okay, it’s pretty obvious he’s not _opposed_ , but—

“Hey,” Kent takes a step back, not letting go of him but putting an inch or so of space between them, a little pinch between his eyebrows.“Are you okay?”

“I’m—yes. I’m _so_ happy right now, you don’t even know.”

“I might,” Kent mutters and Eli has to kiss him for that.

“But?” Kent says.

“But I’ve never done this before. The relationship stuff or the—“

He waves a hand.

“Sex stuff,” Kent supplies helpfully.

“Right. Just. Any of it. Everything in the last twenty-four hours has been a first for me and the fact that it’s with _you_ —“

“You’re thinking ‘Kent fucking Parson’ in your head right now, aren’t you?” Kent says. He sounds a little resigned.

“I might be.”

“But it’s just _me._ ”

“I _know_. You’re not the problem. Well, you are, a little bit. Because I really—I don’t want to fuck this up. But the circumstances…”

Kent winces and Eli cups his hands around the back of Kent’s neck.

“It’s not your fault. But this is all kind of overwhelming. And like, back home when you like someone you go on a couple of dates and hold hands and sneak kisses and then one day you leave a movie early so you can make out in the back of a pickup before your parents expect you home and then—it’s a process. Is my point. And usually you go through that process with multiple people before you find—a person. That’s really important. But I didn’t get to do any of that, before. And now I’m here and I’m sleeping in your bed with you and I don’t have a curfew and it’s just—“

“Overwhelming,” Kent repeats.

“Yeah. And the whole professional NHL player, keeping things a secret, aspect doesn’t really help.”

“That’s fair. So. We’ll take things slow, then?”

“Please. I mean. This—what we’ve been doing is fine, just. Nothing more until I’ve like, acclimated. If you don’t mind.”

“Okay.”

They just stand there for a moment, holding on to each other, and Kent purses his lips.

“While we’re on the topic of serious shit…”

“Oh my god. More talking?” It comes out a little whinier than Eli it means it to, but Kent seems endeared rather than annoyed, so its okay.

“Yes,” Kent says, “More talking. Anika will be so happy she’ll let me choose something from the treasure box.”

“Your therapist has a treasure box?”

“Yours doesn’t?”

“Well, if he does he probably only offers it as a reward for _children_.”

Kent sticks out his tongue which really doesn’t do him any favors in terms of proving maturity.

“Anyway,” Kent says, hiking up Eli’s shirt a little so he can sneak his thumb under the fabric. He pets the skin over Eli’s hip bone, absent, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. “I think we should talk about what we mean when we say we’re going to keep this a secret. Like. Are we telling people close to us, or—?”

“Oh. Well. The only person I’d want to tell is Eric. I’m already keeping the Jack thing a secret from him so.”

“Of course. Yeah. I’d like to tell Jeff. I also want to tell Tater about, you know, me in general. I think I’m ready and seeing how cool he’s been with you is—“

Eli bites his lip and Kent narrows his eyes.

“What?

“Uh. I’m pretty sure Tater already knows? About you. He told me at breakfast last week that you—that he could tell we were interested in each other. Which. I told him I was definitely into you but I wasn’t sure if you, like, reciprocated. He was actually really cool about it. That was the reason for the airport hug.”

“Oh.” Kent takes a steading breath. “Okay. Well. I’d want to tell Tater and Jeff then. Which, Jeff would probably figure it out pretty quickly anyway, but—“ he pauses, thumb stilling against Eli’s hip.

“What?”

“Do you want to see?” Kent asks, and he’s got a look on his face that can only mean trouble.

“See what?”

“How long it takes Jeff to figure it out.”

Eli grins. “Definitely.”

Kent ducks to kiss him again.

…And then again.

And then—

Eli is pretty sure he’s the instigator of the third kiss, maybe the fourth one too, and it’s not until Kent is lifting him back up onto the counter that he remembers—

“Oh, _shit_ , the pancakes.”

****

Eli takes a two hour nap after class, plays fetch with Hawke, eats at the dining hall with the Morgans, and then, feeling suitably well-rested and somewhat human again, he FaceTimes Eric.

It’s nearly 10pmEric’s time and he’s clearly fresh from the shower when he answers the call—all damp and rumpled and pink from the steam. He’s wearing an unfamiliar sweater that looks far too big for him. And he’s…in Jack’s room.

“Why are you in Jack’s room?” Eli asks.

“Hey sweetheart,” Eric says blithely. “It was so good to see you this weekend. How was your first day back?”

“Yes, yes. Hello, hi, why are you in Jack’s room?”

Eric sighs like he’s a lost cause. “My dorm lost power from the ice storm today. Jack is letting me stay here for the night.”

“Where is Jack sleeping?”

“With Shitty.”

The screen is admittedly pixelated, but Eric looks a little disappointed by that.

“Ah.”

“Hopefully class will be cancelled tomorrow, though. There’s supposed to be over a foot of snow tonight.”

“I miss you,” Eli says, because apparently all this talking about feelings has made him a little less emotionally stunted.

Eric’s face goes all crumply and Eli wishes he could take it back.

“I do too. Lord, but I’d actually sort of forgotten how much I missed having you around in person and now I’ve remembered and it’s like…a fresh wound, you know?”

“Yeah.”

They both just stare at each other, getting progressively shinier around the eyes, until Hawke climbs up onto the bed and sidles her way forward until her head is in Eli’s lap. He moves the laptop a little further away so she doesn’t knock it off the edge of the bed on accident.

“So,” Eli says. “I actually wanted to tell you something.”

“Oh?”

“But you can’t tell anyone else. And I do mean _anyone_.”

“Okay.”

Eric gets up, leaving the screen for a moment, and Eli can hear him shouldering the door to Jack’s room closed. It doesn’t really fit in the sagging frame anymore and there’s a pretty distinctive screech against the wood floor when he finally gets it in place.

“Okay,” Eric repeats, jumping back onto the bed. “Hit me.”

“Well,” Eli says, and he can’t help it, he’s already grinning like a maniac. Because here’s a sentence he never in his wildest dreams thought he would get to say:

“I’m dating Kent Parson.”

Eric doesn’t say anything for several seconds.

“Are you serious?”

“I am so serious.”

Eric screams. Just. Straight up. Screams.

“Shut up. _Shut up!_ No. That’s— _seriously_?!”

“Seriously.”

“Oh my god. Eli. I’m so happy for you. But how—“

Eric glances away from the screen when someone knocks on the door.

“Bits?” It sounds like Shitty. “You okay, bro?”

“Fine!” Eric yells back. “I’m just talking to Eli and he had some good news. But everything’s fine!”

“Okay,” Shitty answers. “Hi Eli! Hi Hawke! Congratulations on the good news!”

Eli kisses Hawke’s head, laughing, as Eric returns his attention to the screen.

“Tell me,” he demands.

“Well. Yesterday Kent picked me up at the airport—“

“ _Yeah_ he did,” Eric interrupts.

Eli rolls his eyes.

“And we sort of ended up yelling at each other but then talking about things? And we decided we would try. Being together.”

“Is he—he’s not going to come out though, right?”

“No, not right now. But he said he would. If things go well.”

Eric sucks in a breath. “You believe him?”

And that’s the question isn’t it?

“Yeah,” Eli says, soft. “I do.”

“Alright then,” Eric agrees, positively beaming at him. “Only you, Eli. _An NHL star_. I mean, honestly.” His smile dims a little. “So. Not to be downer. But you know I’ve got your back, right? However all of this turns out?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Good.” Eric considers him for a minute. “You look exhausted. Did you sleep last night? Or were you… _busy_.”

For someone so adorable, Eric does lecherous a little too well.

“ _Excuse you_ , we are taking things slow,” Eli says primly.

Eric makes a judgmental noise. “Why? That boy is furthest thing from my type but I do have eyes. I’ve seen the photosets on Tumblr. His ass is a national treasure.”

Eli’s not about to argue with that.

“Everything is just really new. And it's a lot. To deal with.” Eli says, and Eric sobers.

“No, I know. I wasn’t—“

“I did, uh, touch it, though?”

“The Parson Booty?”

“We’re not calling it that, but yes.”

“Verdict?”

“Very firm. A+ work.”

“And on the eighth day,” Eric intones, eerily similar to the pastor at Eric’s church back home. "The Lord made hockey asses. And Eli felt one. And it was good.”

“Hallelujah,” Eli agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! And will be updating weekly again through the holiday break. :)
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> Pretty sure I aced my in-person final exam. Got an A (and some really awesome feedback--see Tumblr for more) on my final paper for the Feminism and Pornography class where I wrote about women and erotic fanfic. No word yet on my other final paper, but I'm feeling pretty confident about it as well. Relief! Let the Christmas-ing begin! See you next week!


	22. Chapter 22

On Wednesday, Eli goes straight from class to Kent’s apartment.

Kent isn’t there—it’s an early game so he’s already deep in his pre-game rituals at the arena—but it allows Eli to take his time sorting through Kent’s closet for something to wear. He’d realized that morning that every single piece of Aces related clothing Kent has given him, or snuck into his skate bag, or left in the guest closet, or—well, the point is that all of the shirts and jerseys and sweaters have Kent’s name and number on them (Eli files that information away for analysis later), and while he may _want_ to explicitly flaunt his loyalties, it’s probably not a good idea considering recent media speculation.

Eli eventually just borrows one of Kent’s generic Aces hoodies and waits in the lobby for Jeff and Alex to pick them up. He sits in the back seat of Alex’s car with Hawke, apologizing about the dog hair because that’s his life, while Jeff complains about never being able to walk again despite the fact that he’s in a boot and walking just fine.

Alex does that thing where she meets Eli’s eyes in the rearview mirror, and they commiserate for a moment about what a giant baby the professional hockey player in the passenger seat is.

Eli likes Alex. He already knew from Jeff that she was a twenty-seven year old doctoral student in Biology, currently working on her dissertation, and Jeff has repeatedly said that she’s far too smart for him and he’s lucky he conned her into marrying him with his good looks and charm.

By the time they get to their seats he’s also learned that Alex grew up in California, nearly decided to become a professional skateboarder before going with academia instead, and usually drives a motorcycle when not chauffeuring her injured husband, a disabled kid, and a service dog, around.

“She’s a lot cooler than you,” Eli tells Jeff when they get to the stadium.

“She is,” Jeff agrees.

“I married him for his dimples and money,” Alex says.

“Fair,” Eli says, “his ass isn’t half bad either,” because he’s been thinking a lot about butts recently and apparently lacks a filter.

“True. Dimples, money, and ass,” Alex amends.

Jeff looks smug.

The box is comparatively quiet, there’s a bathroom less than a hundred feet from the door, and Eli is feeling pretty good as he settles in, getting Hawke tucked next to his seat, leaning a little toward Alex as she continues to tell him about the new bike she has her eye on.

Judging by the look on Jeff’s face, it’s going to be her christmas present.

By the time warmups are over, he’s gotten the rundown on her dissertation, knows more about Mexican Freetailed Bats than a good portion of the US population, and has also heard the story of Jeff and Alex’s bizarre courtship.

“I’d never seen a hockey game in my life, but Jeff was playing for the Stars when I was doing research in Texas. I ran into this guy in a bar one night in Dallas and—“

“She was so drunk,” Jeff notes.

“I was a little drunk,” she admits. “And I mentioned the connection between bats and tequila—“

“She talked for twenty minutes about how vital Long Nosed Bat migration patterns were for the distribution and diversification of agave plants—which tequila is derived from— and how the decline in their species was effecting the alcohol industry. And despite the fact that she was wasted she was super eloquent and used a shit tonne of words I didn’t understand. It was adorable.”

“He immediately fell in love with my wit and bat-savvy,” she continues.

“I did.”

“And we went out on our first date the next night.”

“By summer I was so in love with her that I voluntarily spent two straight weeks in Mexico with her, knee-deep in guano, with no electricity half the time and no idea what the hell was happening _all_ of the time because everyone was speaking Spanish.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“Well yeah. You get excited about guano and you speak Spanish. _You_ had a blast.”

“I do not get _excited_ about—“

“And what about the drug cartel!”

“The drug cartel?” Eli asks.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” Alex says.

“We nearly died.”

“We did not.”

“I’m sorry,” Eli repeats. “The _drug cartel_?”

“One of the caves housing a colony she was researching was being used by smugglers to hide their cocaine stash or whatever,” Jeff says.

“We don’t know that,” Alex mutters, aggrieved.

“So, what, the angry men with guns were protecting a stash of _jellybeans_ in their top secret boarder cave?”

“Once they understood we were scientists they let us go and no one got hurt,” Alex says to Eli. Her tone implies that her husband is being ridiculous. “They understood the importance of bats in the propagation cycle of agave plants. They appreciated the work we were doing.”

“Yes. Thank God for environmentally conscious drug dealers,” Jeff says.

Alex rolls her eyes.

“Anyway,” she continues, “luckily I was finished with the bulk of my research in Texas and Mexico by the time he was traded. So when he asked me to marry him and head for the desert, I said yes. I mean. I still have to travel quite a bit for ongoing research and to meet with my committee members, but his ridiculous paycheck facilitates that so living here isn’t a huge imposition.”

“Don’t let her lie to you,” Jeff says, “She complains all the time about the quality of the caves in the vicinity of Vegas. She has strong opinions about caves. Almost as strong as her opinions about guano. She’s a cave person.”

“That joke never gets old, dear,” Alex says flatly.

“I know.”

Jeff smooshes a kiss against her temple and she swats him away.

Eli is charmed.

The game starts and they fall mostly quiet. The Aces are playing the Falconers, and while they’ve been doing really well this season, Eli is pretty confident the Aces will win.

Kent takes the face-off against a man who towers over him, wins it, and then Eli is, quite literally, on the edge of his seat. It’s nothing like watching at home, on his laptop or Kent’s couch, where there’s this sort of sense of separation—like it’s not really happening or something because it’s on the television screen. Here, he holds his breath through each of Kent’s shifts, winces every time someone tries to run him into the boards, screams encouragement when Tater retaliates for a dirty hit, and jumps out of his seat at a particularly pretty save by Rushy.

Alex spends most of the game laughing at him.

Jeff spends most of the game muttering under his breath and leaning back and forth in his seat like he can telekinetically influence the puck.

The Aces win 4-3 in overtime, Tater with an assist by Kent,Coots with an assist by Matts, Kent unassisted, and Kent again with the final goal, assisted by Tater.

There’s this brief moment immediately following the puck’s slick slide beneath the goalie’s descending left leg, when Kent’s arms go up before the goal horn has even sounded. He turns, momentum carrying him back around the boards—and he points directly to the box where Eli is sitting.

It’s too far away. Eli can’t see Kent’s face, wouldn’t even be able to tell that the small figure on the ice so far below _is_ Kent without the name and number emblazoned on his jersey. But for a three-second stretch of interminable time, it feels like Kent is looking right at him.

Everyone piles on Kent a moment later before they take turns knocking helmets with Rushy who blocked 36 shots and generally kicked ass, and then they’re leaving the ice and Eli’s face, a little open-mouthed and dumb-looking, is on the jumbotron. Alex throws an arm around his shoulder and waves, and then Jeff lounges across both of their laps so he’s in view of the camera as well before the screen changes to show a group of blonde women who all look eerily similar cheering in the stands.

“Those are some of the WAGs,” Jeff says, his head still mostly in Eli’s lap. “Alex hates that she looks so much like them.”

“I’d dye my hair brown on principal except it’d be all wrong with my skin tone.”

“Your hair is beautiful,” Eli says loyally, because it is. Alex’s hair is this really nice honey-gold color, thick and sort of wavy, with a blunt edge just below her shoulders.

“And it’s a damn shame, too,” she agrees. “Because I fit right in with the fembots.”

“ _Alex_ ,” Jeff says.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with them!” She amends. “They’re all wonderful women and I do enjoy spending time with them. It’s just.”

“All WAGs kinda look the same?”

“Yeah. And here I am proliferating the issue.”

“Once Kicks graduates you’ll get a little diversity,” Jeff says.

“Kicks?” Eli asks.

“Rushy’s girlfriend. She’s playing NCAA hockey at Stanford right now. She’s Japanese-American.”

Eli whistles. “Stanford?”

“I know,” Jeff says. “How he managed that, no one knows. He doesn’t even have dimples.”

“Still a nice ass,” Eli and Alex say simultaneously, and Jeff rolls his eyes.

Jeff shifts to his feet awkwardly, then offers his hand to Alex, intentionally dimple-ing at her. “Want to drop by the locker room?” he asks Eli. “Kent would probably like that.”

“Are you sure it’s okay?”

“Yeah, definitely. Come on.”

“I’ll go get the car and wait for you outside the player’s exit,” Alex says, kissing Jeff absently.

They take a special elevator with a bored-looking attendant down to the locker room level of the stadium, and after a few minutes of walking the wide cinderblock hallway, where the various people they pass, both press and staff, look like they have Very Important Things to do, Eli can hear music.

“Star of the game picks music,” Jeff says fondly.

Eli listens to Halsey declare that she’s heading straight for the castle, and laughs.

“Kent?”

“Definitely Kent.”

Jeff shoulders open the door and Eli has to take a moment because A. the locker room is ridiculously large and expensive looking—though he really shouldn’t be surprised, it is _Vegas_ —B. the smell is pretty terrible but C. there are a _lot_ of attractive, naked, or nearly-naked, men ambling around and one of them is probably Kent.

His awkward pause just inside the door isn’t noticed because most of the guys immediately converge upon Jeff, patting his back with a degree of roughness that seems counterintuitive to recovery from an injury.

When Jeff turns to introduce Eli, he’s more or less prepared with a—admittedly nervous— smile, carefully keeping his eyes at shoulders-or-above height.

“Guys, this is Eli,” Jeff says, simultaneously taking a step back and pushing Eli forward.

“And Hawke!” Rushy yells from his stall. He’s stripped to the waist but still has his goalie pads on his legs. The dichotomy is kind of hilarious.

“And Hawke,” Eli agrees. “Hi, Rushy.”

Rushy blows him a kiss, then glances back toward the door like he’s afraid he’ll get in trouble.

Eli doesn’t know what that’s about, but if there’s one thing he’s learned about hockey in the last few months, it’s that goalies are weird.

He gets several hand shakes and jarring shoulder-slaps as he meets various people he’s interacted with on Twitter or Instagram but yet to meet in real life.

“Eli!” A very tall, very blonde, man—kid?—says. “I’m Asher. I private messaged you about the pie? It totally worked, man. My girlfriend thought it was the sweetest thing and totally forgot she was mad at me.”

“I’m tell you Eli best,” Tater yells, coming out of the shower area.

Tater is in the process of tucking a towel around his waist and he’s still all wet and—listen. Eli has no designs on Tater. But the man is _jacked._

“Nice to meet you, Asher,” Eli says, “I’m glad she liked it.”

“For sure. I’m already planning our anniversary dinner—I’m going to make the mango salsa fish thing you did last year and then the key lime bars that Eric did a couple weeks back.”

Asher seems genuinely excited about the prospect.

“Do you know what kind of wine would pair best with that? Becca likes wine but I’m—“

“Stupid rookie baby?” Tater says helpfully.

“Eli’s underage,” Jeff points out.

“So am I?” Asher says, confused.

“Baby,” Tater says again.

“Get a nice Sauvignon Blanc or Pinot Grigio,” an older man says. He’s got grey at his temples, with laugh lines and the kind of warm brown eyes that make Eli want to trust him.

“I can help you pick it out if you want.”

Asher looks delighted and potentially a little frightened. “That would be really great, Rads, thanks.”

He sidles away, and the older man takes his place, extending a hand.

“I’m Derek. Radulouff. Nice to meet you, kid. It’s about time, Kent won’t shut up about you.”

Eli isn’t sure how to respond to that.

“It’s nice to meet you, too.”

The handshake is firm, but not unkind, and Derek crosses his arms afterward to look down at Hawke, who’s a little uncertain in the new, loud, environment, but holding her heel at his ankle.

“Good looking German Shepherd. Working line?”

“Yessir,” Eli says, because Derek seems like the kind of person you’re supposed to “sir.”

“She’s from a Czech line—bred in the US, though.”

“She’s beautiful. Good nerves too, with all this—“ he waves a hand to encompass the general madness of the locker room—“My wife has a German import boy, does SAR with him. Way too high strung for service work, but he’s a fantastic dog.”

“That’s awesome.” Eli is about to ask if he has a picture because 99% of people who bring up their dogs in conversation will happily provide one, but before he’s able to, Kent pushes his way into the locker room, still in all his gear, and a backwards snapback, and the minute he sees Eli he breaks into a giant grin.

Derek makes an amused noise and, with a soft pat to Eli’s shoulder, heads off to the showers.

“Eli!” Kent says.

“And Jeff,” Jeff says beside him, long-suffering.

“And Jeff,” Kent allows.

Jeff and Kent fist bump, then tap each other’s chests with their fists, and then Kent is in front of Eli and he’s flushed pink with exertion, grinning crookedly, and for a moment all Eli can think about is the way Kent lifted him up onto the counter two days before, the way Kent’s hips felt between his thighs.

“Hi,” Kent says.

“Hi,” Eli agrees.

He steals Kent’s hat because he needs to do _something_ and thats suitably flirtatious without being damning.

“You played pretty good,” Eli says, settling the hat on his own head.

“ _Pretty_ good? I was the star of the game. If I’d had the forethought to punch someone I would have gotten a Gordie Howe.”

“Rushy still got the first interview,” Jeff points out.

“No comment,” Rushy says.

“Star of the game,” Kent repeats. “And I’m pretty sure my interview was longer.”

He walks over to his stall, pulling off his jersey and sits down with a sigh—bulky padded legs stretched out in front of him. He takes off his chest protector next and by the time he’s stripped down to his under armor Eli is biting his bottom lip because Kent’s hair after a game but before a shower is—well, it’s delightful, really. Eli understands why the minute Kent’s helmet comes off he’s usually jamming on a hat because there’s no way any reporter would take him seriously if he did post-game interviews like this.

There’s little damp ringlets of half-formed curls stuck to his forehead, but a good portion of it is in that awkward stage between wet and dry—fluffy and completely at the will of his cowlicks.

“Your hair is ridiculous,” Eli says.

“Your face is ridiculous,” Kent retorts.

Eli ignores him, reaching to run his fingers through the hair in question. It’s sweaty and a little gross, but the action is worth the soft expression he gets in response.

“I kind of love it,” Eli says.

Kent open his mouth and then closes it again.

His ears go a little pink.

Eli realizes Rushy is watching them and he musses Kent’s hair roughly, before shoving at Kent’s forehead with his knuckles.

“What was that slashing nonsense in the second period, though?” Eli asks, raising his voice and taking a careful step back. “Pretty sure you’re useless to your team in the box.”

Derek, emerging from the showers, yells an “amen.”

Eli’s expecting an argument from Kent—that is wasn’t intentional (even though it definitely was)—but instead, Kent’s expression shutters.

“He deserved it.”

And that’s—that’s Kent being entirely serious.

“Well,” Eli says. “I guess it’s good you slashed him, then.”

Kent’s smile returns.

Derek makes a resigned noise and mutters something about children.

It is at this point that the draw of Sweaty Hockey Player apparently becomes too difficult for Hawke to resist and she, while still technically maintaining her heel, stretches her neck out to shove her nose in Kent’s crotch.

It effectively derails the conversation.

“So,” Kent says, still laughing a minute later after Eli has chastised Hawke and she’s sitting at his feet looking repentant. “Dinner?”

“Dinner,” Eli agrees.

“Dinner?” Jeff repeats hopefully.

“I’m come?” Tater asks.

“Sure,” Eli says.

“Oh, is Eli cooking?” Rushy calls.

Several faces turn to look at him, expectant.

Eli glances back at Kent who shrugs, a little resigned, but pleased.

“Dinner at Kent’s place!” Eli announces to the room at large. “I’m making lasagna.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:
> 
> I am officially on break until the second week in January. This means lots of writing time and definite weekly updates, hurrah! I also kicked my finals collective asses and got all A's again this semester, which is pretty rad. I have language exams beginning of next semester, and then I'm working on reading lists for quals and getting my diss prospectus written--this whole PhD thing is getting real. I'm both terrified and super excited. 
> 
> Anyway, I'm revelling in (read: sobbing over) the new Check Please! update and looking forward to the rest of the updates this month. Feel free to come yell about hockey boys (fictional and real) with me on Tumblr in the interim. See you next week!


	23. Chapter 23

All told, Kent hosts eleven people for the impromptu dinner. Well. More like Eli hosts eleven people. Kent isn’t even there for half of the preparation process because Eli doesn’t have enough ingredients—or ovens—to cook for that many people all at once, so while Eli makes the first batch of lasagna, he sends Kent to the grocery store with a very specific (insultingly specific, really) list of things to purchase. By the time Kent gets back, one lasagna is in the oven and Asher and his girlfriend, Nicky, Coots, Rushy, Rads and his wife, Tater, Jeff and Alex have all arrived and are either playing video games in the living room, or watching Eli work his magic in the kitchen. Hawke is cuddling with Coots on the couch and Kit is grumbling angrily from the top of the refrigerator.

When Kent comes in, laden with Eli’s reusable grocery bags, Eli is grinning, gesturing with a knife mid-way through cutting onions, recounting an apparently hilarious story to a small group of on-lookers

He’s wearing the forest-green apron that Kent bought and left conspicuously folded over the oven handle two weeks before and—well. Kent might not be good at fashion but the contrast between Eli’s skin, the faded blue of his jeans, the white t-shirt he’s wearing, and the deep green of the apron is nice. Very nice.

Eli looks like he belongs there. And Kent wants him to. He wants this to be normal—excessive grocery lists and reusable canvas produce bags and dinner parties with his— _their_ —friends. He wants to settle a steadying hand on Eli’s hip as he delivers more vegetables to the cutting board, kiss Eli’s temple before putting the eggs in the refrigerator, and maybe palm his ass when he gets snarky about how long it took Kent to find the _twenty-eight_ “quick” things on Eli’s list.

He can’t, though. Not now, at least.

So he delivers vegetables with a fleeting touch to Eli’s shoulder because it will have to do instead, puts away the eggs as instructed, and pours Eli a glass of wine because Eli likes wine and they just won a game against the Falconers and the checkout girl was hardly going to card him.

“Well thank you, Mr. Parson,” Eli says, accepting the glass. “Amanda and Derek were just asking how I met you. You want to help me tell that story?”

“ _I_ do,” Jeff says from the living room, vaulting over the couch.

Kent groans.

There aren’t any bar stools left so Jeff drapes himself over Tater’s back, trying to steal a piece of carrot from the cutting board.

“Can we not?” Kent asks. He knows his face is flushing but there’s nothing he can do about it.

“Sorry, kid,” Rads says solemnly. “Seniority.”

“I’m your _captain._ ”

“You’re also underage,” he says, eyeing the wine glass in Kent’s hand.

Kent sighs.

“Alright, so,” Eli says, scraping the mound of vegetables off the cutting board and into the pot. “I’d just moved into my dorm at the start of the semester, and I was pretty nervous because it was the very first day ofpractice with the figure team. I get to the facility and—“

By the end of the story the video game is paused, Jeff and Eli have reenacted several pieces of dialogue, there’s been a significant amount of laughter at Kent’s expense, and Kent has finished his glass of wine and is considering hiding in the bedroom.

“He has admittedly redeemed himself since,” Eli says, grinning up at Kent, and Kent is helpless to do anything but smile back at him.

He feels like it has to be obvious—that there’s no way he’s not just broadcasting his giant, unwieldy feelings everywhere. But no one calls him on the fact that he clearly has a massive crush on the little green-apron-wearing figure skater in his kitchen, the conversation topic changes, and the living-room occupants resume their gameplay with friendly threats of violence.

Kent needs to sit down.

It’s a nice night, is the thing.

Everyone gets along and no one says anything cringeworthy, and the food is, obviously, delicious. The only problem is that Eli can’t stay because he has homework to finish and ballet class the next morning and even after most other people have left, Coots and Nicky are still on Kent’s couch with no apparent interest in vacating it at a reasonable hour and Kent can hardly ask them to leave because he wants to make out with his boyfriend. He doesn’t even get to kiss Eli goodnight because Alex offers to drop Eli off at his dorm when she and Jeff leave and it would be weird if he didn’t accept. So Kent sleeps alone and eats breakfast alone and is already a little miffed when he drives to practice the following morning.

Things don’t improve in the locker room.

Because, once again, Matts is running his mouth to the call-ups who are either just as ignorant as he is or too young and green to talk back to a more senior player.

Kent has a headache and newly-sharpened skates in his hand and he considers ignoring it, because he just wants to practice and go home— until he hears Eli’s name.

“The fuck did you just say?” Kent snaps.

“Everyone was thinking it, I’m just saying it,” Matts says blithely.

“ _I_ wasn’t thinking it,” Asher says quietly from his stall.

“Everyone was thinking _what_?”

“It was just weird having the kid in the locker room,” Matts says and Kent’s stomach goes sour.

“Weird?” He repeats, because he’s pretty sure if he tries for a full sentence he’ll throw up.

“Look,” Matts says. “I know he’s your friend or whatever, but just because you’re okay with a gay dude staring at your dick doesn’t mean the rest of us are.”

And Kent.

Has no answer for that.

Well, he does have answer, but it involves outing himself and a decade of pent-up self-hatred and vitriol and possibly a fist to Matts’ stupid fucking face and he can’t—he isn’t ready to—

“Stupid,” Tater says. “Why Eli look at you when I’m in room? I’m have _best_ dick. _You_?” he makes an unimpressed noise.

That gets a round of laughter and Matts rolls his eyes.

“Whatever, man,” he says, and goes back to lacing up his skates like he hasn’t just fucking decimated Kent. Like he doesn’t care, or maybe doesn’t even know, the effect his idiotic off-hand comment has had. Because he’s right. There probably _are_ several guys on the team thinking the same thing. Who love Kent now, but who would never respect him again if he came out. _When_ he comes out? Fuck.

He should say something, but his eyes are feeling dangerously hot and he can’t seem to open his mouth.

“Statistically speaking, Matts,” Jeff says, which, thank God for Jeff, honestly. “It’s likely that every locker room you’ve ever been in has had at least one guy in it interested in dick. It’s unlikely they were ever interested in _yours_ though, considering the person it’s attached to.”

That gets a second, louder, round of laughter.

“Jeff,” Tater says despairingly. “No fair. _I’m_ funny one.”

Kent takes a breath, because he needs to get out of his head and be the goddamn Captain and _say_ something. But before he can, Rushy says, casual as hell:

“Jeff’s right. I’m bi and I’ve never once looked at your dick, Matts. Or, you know, anyone else’s on the team.”

The whole locker room goes silent.

Tater is the first to recover. “Not even mine?” he asks, feigning offense.

Rushy grins. “No, but if this is you giving me permission…”

“But you have a girlfriend,” Nicky says.

“Believe me,” Rushy answers, “ If she knew I had his permission, Kicks would fully support me ogling Tater.”

“Ogling?” Tater asks.

“To ‘ogle’ is to like, stare at someone in a sexually appreciative way,” Coots explains.

“Oh,” Tater says. “Yes. Have permission for ogle.”

“No,” Nicky says, “I mean. How are you bi? You have a girlfriend.”

Rushy blinks. “The whole ‘bi’ thing literally means I like both. Sure, I’m totally in love with Kicks and hopefully she’ll be willing to marry me at some point, but,” he shrugs, “doesn’t mean I stopped finding guys attractive.”

“Guys like me,” Tater says, in case they needed reminding.

“Yeah, buddy,” Rushy agrees. He keeps taping his stick like he hasn’t just tipped Kent’s world on its axis.

“So,” Coots says. “Have you like—“

He stalls out, gesturing a little, a Rushy laughs.

“Sure. I mean, I’ve been with more women than men just because it’s easier. But I dated a guy in juniors. Hooked up with a few more after I was drafted.”

Coots looks scandalized by this. “ _When_? You were rooming with _me_.”

“Whenever I wanted to. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know how you’d take it. And then I met Kicks and it didn’t matter so much anymore.”

“So why say anything?” Nicky asks.

“Because, I have the second-highest save percentage in the NHL right now and Matts is being ignorant.”

“What does your save percentage have to do with it?” Asher asks, because he really is a sweet, naive, child.

“Because no one is going to say I can’t play hockey, now. I’ve proven myself. So if someone in this locker room decides to go to the press, sure, it’ll be hell to deal with, but I won’t have to worry about being traded.”

“You were worried about being traded _before_?” Nicky asks, horrified, like it’s something he never even considered. Like it’s not something Kent has been agonizing over for nearly a decade.

“Of course. No GM is going to hang onto an unproven, controversial player. _Especially_ if there are other, valuable players on the team talking about being uncomfortable with them in the locker room,” he looks up from his tape roll to glance purposefully at Matts. “Team cohesion is more important than giving some no-name queer rookie a chance to prove himself. I’ve known that since juniors.”

“But that’s bullshit,” Nicky says.

Rushy shrugs. “That’s hockey.”

Matts is looking at the floor between his skates.

“Doesn’t have to be,” Jeff says quietly.

“No, it doesn’t,” Rads agrees, “but change has to start somewhere.”

Rads looks pointedly at Kent, and Kent, finally, manages to find his tongue.

“Thanks for trusting us,” he tells Rushy, even though it’s abundantly clear he _doesn’t_ trust everyone in the room. For good reason. “I’m sorry you didn’t feel comfortable telling us before, and,” he clears his throat, “as Captain, that’s my fault.”

He holds up a hand to stop Rushy’s protests. “I know everyone likes to make fun of Jeff’s monologues about inclusivity and stuff—“

“Thanks, bro,” Jeff mutters.

“But this is exactly his point. We shouldn’t— _I_ shouldn’t—let this shit slide anymore. Because we’re a team. And like, fuck management or whatever politics they’ve got going on, you—not only you, Rushy, anyone—should never doubt that your team has your back. Not for something like this.”

It’s not eloquent, but it’s the best he can do.

Rushy nods.

“Thanks, Cap.”

Kent turns to address the rest of the room, arms crossed. “I feel like this goes without saying, but I’m going to say it anyway. Unless Rushy decides to come out publicly at some point, no one talks to the press about this. If the media does somehow get ahold of the information, I’ll personally make sure that the person responsible is traded. Understood?”

He gets a lot of nods, but also several people who just—look away.

Kent is already exhausted and practice hasn’t even started yet.

“Let’s get out on the ice,” he says, more resigned than anything, “before coach decides to bag skate us.”

Practice isn’t as bad as he expects it to be, but it’s not great either. The chemistry on Matts’ line is all off because Asher is more concerned with glaring at Matts than passing to him, and Kent’s distracted because he’s keeping an eye on Rushy, and Tater gets yelled at a couple times for being out of position because he’s both glaring at Matts _and_ keeping on eye on Rushy. Rushy, however, performs brilliantly, even gets a helmet-pat from coach after a drill where he makes four particularly graceful consecutive saves. The locker room is strangely quiet afterward and empties quickly.

Kent is gratified to see that multiple people—over half the team—stop at Rushy’s stall before they leave, and he’s smiling, accepting shoulder-slaps and fist bumps.

Kent approaches him last. When it’s just them left in the locker room.

“Hey,” he says, and then he just…doesn’t know how to continue.

“Hey,” Rushy agrees.

“Thank you,” Kent says and— _fuck_ , _that’s not what he meant to say._

“For?”

Kent just stands there. And who the hell thought making him captain was a good idea? He’s a walking disaster. No wonder one of the most-used Tumblr tags to describe him is “dumpster fire child.” Which maybe isn’t even fair. A burning trash heap would probably handle this _better_.

“Kent?” Rushy says, sounding a little concerned.

“I’m gay,” he says, because he might as well and he’s just so damn tired. “And I’m starting to think about coming out. But I’m not ready yet. And you were so chill about it. And the guys were—we’ll they’re kind of ignorant but—“ Rushy laughs “—for the most part, they were cool. And that’s good. So. Thanks.”

Rushy looks contemplative, but not at all surprised.

“You mean you’ve been thinking about coming out to the team or coming out publicly?”

It’s a little hard to get the word out. “Publicly.”

Rushy sucks in a breath.

“Not, like. Soon. But within the next couple of years, maybe? Hopefully after a cup win.”

“Fair.”

Rushy leans back on his hands.

“You think it’d help if I came out first? A bisexual guy with a girlfriend might be a good, uh, first step for the hockey community.”

Kent doesn’t understand. “What?”

“I’m just saying. I’d want to talk to my agent and Kicks first but. You’re Kent Parson. You coming out will be a much, _much_ bigger deal than me coming out. If I can do anything to take some of the pressure off you, I will.”

Kent refuses to cry in the practice facility locker room.

He clears his throat.

“I don’t—“

Rushy rubs the back of his neck, flushing a little. “Just say ‘thanks, man’ and go cuddle with Eli or something. You look kinda rough.”

Kent opens his mouth to—he doesn’t even know what, deny it maybe?—but Rushy is already shutting him down.

“Don’t play, dude. You’re ass over elbows for the kid. If you aren’t already together, you should be.”

“We are,” he admits and _that_ admission, at least, is shockingly easy.

“Good.”

Rushy zips his bag and shoulders it, punching Kent gently in the solar-plexus.

“Seriously. Go home. Chill with your boyfriend. Feel free to tell him about me—I trust Eli.” He taps the brim of Kent’s hat, which should be condescending, but somehow doesn’t feel that way. “You’ll be okay, kid.”

Kent shoves his hand away to keep up appearances. “You’re like, three years older than me.”

“Five,” Rushy says. “Respect your elders. I’ve gotta go call my agent, just in case. Probably need to schedule a sit-down with coach. Does management know about you?”

“No,” Kent says faintly. “Not yet.”

“Okay,I won’t say anything then. You should probably tell them, though. As soon as you’re comfortable.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I’ve been—yeah.”

“Alright, good talk. See you tomorrow.”

Kent walks on autopilot to the parking lot.

He cranks his car. Puts in gear. Puts it back in park. Calls Eli.

Eli answers on the third ring.

“Hey! You out of practice?”

“Yeah. Are you free this afternoon?

“I’m actually about to head over to your place now. My afternoon class was cancelled and I thought I’d film a video before getting to work on a paper.

“Oh. Good. That’s—that’s awesome.” Kent buckles his seatbelt and puts the car in gear again. “I’m on my way to Pretty Bird but I can get it to-go. Want me to pick up a salad for you too?

“Please.”

“Okay.”

He takes a breath and reminds himself that it’s okay to ask for things that he wants. That it’s not needy or annoying if it’s important to him. It comes out stilted anyway.

“Can you stay the night?”

“Was planning to. Is everything okay? You sound—off.”

“Uh. Something happened at practice and I just—I’m about to call Anika but…”

“Hey,” Eli says. “Whatever you need, okay?”

“Okay.”

“So. What do you need?”

“You. On my couch. Or in my kitchen. Just. With me? I guess. We could—it might be nice if you napped with me. And Hawke. We could all nap together?”

“I dunno, that sounds like a pretty huge imposition, but I guess I can manage it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m in the car now so I’ll see you in a little bit, okay?”

“Okay,” Kent says, feeling significantly better.

“Oh, but on the salad can you—“

“No croutons, extra avocado, dressing on the side.”

“Well of course you already knew that. Why did I even ask?”

“No idea,” Kent says seriously.

“Hey,” Eli says, “whatever’s going on, I’ve got your back, okay? Unless it’s like, moving a body. Then you should probably call Tater.”

“What, because he’s Russian?”

“No, because he’s comically huge. Does he have mafia ties I should be aware of?”

That startles a laugh out of Kent.

“Probably. Anyone that nice has to be hiding something.”

“True. I’ll see you in twenty.”

“I bet I can beat you home.”

“You’re on, Mr. Parson. But don’t you jostle my salad in your haste.”

Kent grins at the windshield. “‘Jostle your salad’? who even says that.”

“Me.”

“Clearly.”

“ _Goodbye_ , Kenneth.”

“Not my name. Bye, Eli.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log: 
> 
> Happy almost new year! I hope everyone is having an enjoyable winter holiday. For Christmas, my parents got me a Crosby jersey which I'd been lusting after for a while, and a PUCK FROM THE FIRST EVER (regular season) VEGAS GOLDEN KNIGHTS GAME (a win) SIGNED BY MARC-ANDRE FLEURY. It was entirely unexpected and I think the first time a christmas gift has ever made me cry. So. My Christmas went well. Also, both the Pens and the Knights won their games last night, which was nice.
> 
> Ok. Comic business. I don't know about you, but that last Check Please update was killer. The contrast between Kent and Jack's situations in canon is absolutely heartbreaking and I had to go console myself by writing fluffy shit that may or may not end up in future chapters. I can't believe we have to wait until MARCH to find out what happens with Bitty's parents. Goodness.
> 
> Anyway, see you next week!


	24. Chapter 24

Being with Eli is easy.

They eat in companionable silence and then Kent closes the bedroom shades and strips to his boxers and crawls under the duvet cover and Eli follows him without being asked. Kent is bigger than Eli. Usually he likes that but right now he kind of just wants to be held—not that he would admit it—doesn’t think he could even begin to ask for it—but Eli seems to know anyway and just sort of arranges them so Kent’s head is on his chest and Eli’s arms are around his shoulders and then Kit curls up in the small of his back and Hawke stretches out on top of their feet and Kent closes his eyes because _yes_.

This is what he needed.

The static hum of anxiety dissipates a little under Eli’s careful hands, under the soft drag of his fingers across Kent’s skin, the little patterns he draws between the freckles on Kent’s shoulders. And surrounded by warm cotton and steady breathing and the hush of gentle afternoon kindness, Kent falls asleep.

When he wakes up, Eli’s arms are still loosely around him but his head has shifted off Eli’s chest and onto the bed beside it so Kent’s face is sort of mashed into the side of Eli’s ribcage. He’s drooling a little. It’s great.

He presses his mouth against Eli’s skin because it’s right there, and he can, and then he bites, gently, because—well. He wants to.

Eli’s formerly slack fingers curl into his hair, but don’t pull him away. He makes a soft noise that Kent feels a little proud to be responsible for.

“Hey,” Kent says, “it okay if I leave a mark?”

The fingers in his hair tighten.

“Knock yourself out.”

He takes his time leaving a hickey, stark against the paler skin on Eli’s ribs, then rolls onto his back and and shuffles up the bed, grinning.

“Feeling better?” Eli asks, turning on his side to face Kent.

He props his head up on one hand, looking a little flustered, opposite palm pressed to the mark that Kent just left.

It’s a good look.

“Much better,” Kent agrees.

“You want to talk about practice?”

And the really, _really,_ cool thing is, Kent is pretty sure he could say ‘no’ and Eli would drop it.

“Matts was being ignorant and said some stupid shit and then Rushy came out.”

“Rushy is _gay_?” Eli says, scrambling into a seated position like the situation is urgent or something. “I thought he was crazy in love with his girlfriend.”

“Bi.”

“Oh. Right. There I go with binary thinking. Jeff would be appalled.”

Eli glances toward the door like he’s expecting Jeff to barge in right that moment to chastise him.

“Wait, you said he came out. On the ice or in the locker room?”

“Locker room. Matts actually looked pretty embarrassed afterward, so maybe it’ll be okay. Most of the guys were cool. I mean. Everyone loves Rushy. He’s like. Sunshine in human form.”

“Is this—he’s not coming out publicly, though, right?”

“Not now. He, uh. Offered, though.”

Eli just looks at him.

Kent licks his lips.

“I told him about me. After practice. He said if I decide to go public he’ll come out first. As like, a stepping stone? I guess.”

“Bisexual goalie with a steady girlfriend _is_ a lot easier to digest than gay prodigy captain—“

“With a boyfriend,” Kent agrees. “Yeah. That’s what Rushy said. I still can’t believe he would do that for me, but. It _would_ make things easier, probably.”

Eli doesn’t respond to that and Kent glances up at him, then does a little crunch to sit up as well, slinging his elbows around his knees.

“What?” Kent says.

“Is that—are we boyfriends?”

“Oh. Uh. Yes? Do you not—“

“No, I do, we just hadn’t had that conversation yet, so.”

“What conversation?”

“The one where we used that word?”

“I said I’d maybe _come out_ for you. We had that whole, like, super mature discussion.”

“Well I didn’t know! I’ve never done this before and we only kissed for the first time like…48 hours ago. I’m trying not to be, you know, clingy or whatever.”

“Pretty sure I’m the clingy one and I think it’s closer to 72 hours, now,” he reaches for Eli, bottom lip jutted out, “come _here_.”

“Oh my god, Kent.”

Eli leans forward, though, and Kent gently tackles Eli back into a position that might be called “laying.” He takes a moment to arrange their untidy pile of limbs, throwing a leg over Eli’s hip, cinching their bodies together. “See?” He says smugly. “I’m the clingy one.”

“Literally,” Eli says into this neck.

“I refuse to apologize.”

“So. Boyfriends.”

“Yeah. I mean, I’m serious about this. I want you to be mine. Not—not in a creepy possessive way—“

Eli coughs.

“—okay, maybe a little bit possessive, but like, I would be yours too. We’d be. Uh. Each others?”

Kent really is a walking disaster but Eli’s grinning up at him so clearly he didn't fuck that up too badly.

“Yeah. I understand. I’d like that too.”

“Good,” Kent says, relieved. “So Jeff has some private rink time tonight. Want to join him and be grossly romantic?”

“I’d love to. I have to finish my government paper first, though.” Eli makes a face. “Finals are only two weeks away and I need to start studying for exams this weekend.”

Kent winces a little because that sounds terrible.

“Okay. Do you think we have time to make out for a couple minutes first?

“I dunno,” Eli pretends to look at the nonexistent watch on his wrist. “I’m pretty strapped. No more than five minutes.”

Kent nods seriously, reaching for his phone.

“I’ll set a timer.”

***

 Skating at the rink after official close makes it feel like winter. Which is a rare feeling, in Vegas. He’s not sure what it is but he likes it; the nighttime cold, the dim echoey hallways, the christmas music over the PA system—left on from family free skate earlier that evening— that Eli and Jeff insist they don’t change.

Kent gives Eli “checking lessons” that mostly involve him gently running Eli into the boards and then hugging him until one or both of them dissolves into giggles. And then Eli tries to teach him how to do a basic spin that involves even more falling than the “checking lessons” and about the same amount of muffled laughter.

Jeff despairs of them and then coaxes Eli into showing him pieces of the new routine he’s working on for the regional competition in January. Kent’s schedule might actually permit him to attend it too, if he can get permission to skip a morning practice. He hasn’t talked to coach yet, though, because he needs an excuse other than “I want to go watch my boyfriend at a figure skating competition.”

They pack up before the zamboni driver can kick them out at 10:30 and then Jeff, bemoaning a distinct lack of Alex at his home—apparently she had to take a trip back to Dallas—invites himself over to spend the night with Kent.

It’s not unusual. In fact, more often than not, Jeff spends the night in Kent’s guest room when Alex is out of town because he’s the most extroverted person to ever extrovert and hates being alone. But Jeff still hasn’t caught on to the fact that Eli and Kent are like, officially together, despite the fact that they’ve been, Kent thinks, painfully obvious, and the last thing he wants to do is keep up this are-we-aren’t-we thing for the rest of the night when it’s one of the last nights he’ll have with Eli before they’re on the road again. That and he just really wants to talk to his best friend about his boyfriend and he can’t do that if his best friend doesn’t _know_ about his boyfriend and Kent is about ready to just tell him because patience has never been his strong suit.

“I don’t think he’s getting it,” Kent says when he and Eli are back in the car again.

“Which is ridiculous because I’m not sure how much more obvious I can be.”

Eli bites his lip.

“What?”

“Nothing, I just think this says something about our behavior around him in general for the past few weeks.”

“Maybe. Did you know he has a whole album on his phone of cute pictures he’s taken of us?”

“Cute pictures?

“Yeah. Like us…cuddling and sleeping on each other and you feeding me when I was hurt and shit.”

Eli looks delighted. “well. I guess we need to up our game?” Eli asks.

“I’m not sure how to do that aside from like, straight up making out in front of him.”

“That works.”

He’d been joking, but…”Yeah,” he agrees. “Okay.”

They disobey a few speed limits to make sure they get back to Kent’s place before Jeff does, and then have a very unsexy conversation about where they plan to get “caught.”

They’re still arguing about it when they hear the uneven stride of Jeff’s aircast in the hallway.

They freeze, Eli still gesturing toward the couch, and Kent just…picks Eli up and puts him on the island.

“Good plan,” Eli mutters, cinching his legs around Kent’s waist, and by the time Jeff has fumbled the door open Kent has one hand up the back of Eli’s shirt and his tongue shoved into Eli’s mouth.

The door clicks shut.

“Oh my god,” Jeff says faintly.

And then, with unholy glee: “Oh my god!”

And then, moments later, with concern: “ _Oh my god_.”

Kent and Eli dissolve into laughter.

“Do you need a minute?” Kent asks.

He tries to turn and face Jeff, but Eli’s legs are still tight around him and when he looks back at Eli, hands sliding down to cup the thighs bracketing his waist, he gets distracted.

Because Eli is still laughing and looking up at him like—like Kent is something important. Eli licks his bottom lip, tongue followed by his upper teeth and then he just sits there, biting his lip and _looking_ at Kent and Kent feels _so much_. And it’s stupid. To feel this much this soon. It’s stupid and reckless and amazing and Kent has to swallow down whatever words want to accompany this unexpected emotional upheaval because he didn’t think it was possible to feel so vulnerable and indestructible simultaneously.

“No,” Jeff says, “I don’t need a minute, but I think you might.”

Eli just sort of collapses into Kent’s chest, laughing again, and Kent wraps his arms around him and puts his face in Eli’s hair and it’s all very histrionic.

Jeff sighs and moves to sit at the bar.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he says magnanimously.

Hawke happily leans against his leg, and nudges his hand with her nose for pets.

Kit uncurls from her place on the counter to show Jeff her butt, then settles in exactly the same place, this time facing away from him.

This doesn’t help Kent who’s trying to stop his slightly hysterical laughter.

“So,” he says, still wrapped around Eli. “I have a boyfriend.”

“No kidding,” Jeff says. “Who?”

Eli lets go of Kent to flip him off.

They separate, a little regretfully, at least on Kent’s part, but Kent keeps one arm around Eli as he slides off the counter.

“How long?” Jeff asks.

“Only a couple of days,” Eli says.

“Since the night Eli got back from Samwell,” Kent clarifies.

“Not to be that person,” Jeff says. “But have you two talked about this? I mean. I’m happy for you, don’t get me wrong, but—“

“ _Yes_ ,” Kent says, maybe a little too sharply. “ _And_ I’ve talked to Anika about it. Twice.”

Eli drags his palm from the small of Kent’s back to the tight space between his shoulder blades, then back again.

“Sorry,” Kent says, before Jeff has a chance to respond. “Just. Yes.”

“Okay.” Jeff spins his phone on the table. “Who knows?”

“You. And Rushy. I told him after practice today, sort of on accident. I want to tell Tater too.”

“Okay. You planning to come out to the team or ?”

“Not yet. Eventually, though. If things—if I have a reason. I’m talking to my agent tomorrow.”

Eli’s hand, still moving restlessly up and down his spine, stills.

“Management?” Jeff asks.

“Probably next week once we’re back from the roady.”

“That’s fast.” Eli says quietly. “You don’t—“

“I want to. They need to be prepared. Just in case. And they should know about me, regardless of us.”

“Well,” Jeff says. “I’m here for you. Both of you. Whatever you need.”

“Thanks, man.”

“When are you planning to tell Tater?”

Kent glances down at Eli. “Uh. You want to invite him over now?”

Tater arrives twenty minutes later with pastries from his Russian cafe.

When he sees Eli and Kent on the couch holding hands, however, his face goes dark.

“Kenny,” he says, putting the delicious-smelling bag on the counter. “I need to talk with you. Alone.”

Kent and Jeff exchange concerned looks but Eli just…starts laughing.

Tater’s expression goes from something like anger to complete bafflement.

He’s not the only one.

“Uh. Eli?” Kent says.

“Sorry,” he says, “Oh god, I’m sorry. It’s just—he thinks you’re breaking my heart leading me on or something. Tater, we’re together. Kent and I. We’re together.”

“Together,” he repeats, arms crossed.

“Like. Dating?” Eli says.

“Boyfriends,” Kent adds. Because he likes the word.

“They got their heads out of their asses,” Jeff supplies, ever helpful.

“You talk?” Tater asks Kent, still looking suspicious. “Eli tell you—“ He pauses, face squinching up in annoyance. “English worst. You know feelings now? Both?”

“Yeah,” Eli says. “We’ve had a couple talks. We know how each other feel.”

“Okay,” he says. He's still frowning at Kent little, but at least he uncrosses his arms. “Eli's sad, when I take him to airport. Because you touch him, sweet for him, always, but not together. I’m see you hold hands and I’m think I have to—“ he gestures between Kent and himself, frowning. “Sit. Make serious face. Talk, uh—sense?

“To talk some sense into him?” Eli supplies.

“Yes. Think I’m have to talk some sense into him.”

“Well,” Eli says. “I appreciate the thought, but it’s not necessary.”

“Good,” Tater agrees. He retrieves the pastry bag from the counter and moves to join the three of them, except there’s not really room for four adult men on Kent’s couch, especially not when three of them are NHL players and two of them are over six foot tall.

It very quickly devolves into a wrestling match because yes, Kent is fully capable of admitting they are all overgrown children, and after several minutes of Tater chirping them gleefully in Russian and Jeff’s occasional “Hey! Watch the leg!”s—Kent finds himself winded on the floor, looking up at Eli who wisely removed himself from the fray and is now sitting on the loveseat. He’s holding the pastry bag on his lap, licking his fingers, and looking somewhat judgmental. He pulls a tiny glazed scone thing out and takes a bite that is _definitely_ judgmental, one eyebrow raised.

Jeff and Tater have more or less given up, each sprawled with their heads against opposite couch arms, occasionally kicking weakly at each other and Jeff actually has the upper hand there because Tater is trying to be gentle with Jeff’s injured leg while Jeff is using his aircast like a very expensive weapon.

Kent crawls onto the love seat with Eli and eats the scone thing out of his hand, purposely messy, while clambering over his lap and into the space next to him.

“Oh my god,” Eli says, wiping his spitty hand on Kent’s shirt, “Are you twelve?”

“Twelve inches,” Kent says.

“I admittedly haven’t actually seen your dick yet but I’m pretty sure that’s not true.”

“It’s not,” Tater and Jeff say simultaneously.

Kent glowers. “I’m telling coach to trade y’all.”

“Y’ALL?” Jeff repeats, gleefull.

Kent hides his face in Eli’s neck.

Eli pats his cheek consolingly.

He presses a discreet little kiss to the soft skin at the base of Eli’s throat, and then keeps his mouth there, smiling, because this--this is exactly what he thought he'd never have.

“Hey,” Jeff says. “Kenny. Stop slobbering on Eli and share the goods. Can we turn on the Rangers game?”

Eli tosses the bag to Tater who then instigates another minor war with Jeff, pretending he’s not going to share. Eli laughs softly, leaning into Kent, and Kent wraps an arm around his chest, anchoring them more fully together, dropping another kiss to the short, wispy hair—desperately trying to curl but not quiet long enough— behind Eli’s ear.

“Hey,” Kent whispers and Eli shifts to look back at him, still smiling from Tater and Jeff’s antics.

“Hey,” he agrees.

And it’s—

Good.

Perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you're probably asking yourself: how long will this fluffy wish-fulfillment nonsense last before disaster strikes? A good question. 
> 
>  
> 
> Captain's Log: 
> 
> In academic news, my panel proposal was accepted and I'm going to the Narrative conference in Montreal this year! Hurray! If you are going as well, or want to chill at McGill University with me while I'm there in April, send me a tumblr message. I love meeting strangers from the internet (sorry, mom).
> 
> See you next week!


	25. Chapter 25

The week before finals, Kent is gone on a roady which is actually probably a good thing because that means he’s not around to distract Eli from studying. It’s deadweek, so at least Eli doesn’t have classes to deal with, but the stress is—well. He’s had two seizures in the last ten days. Which isn’t a big deal. His doctor said it was probably fine because being a college freshman at finals is a lot, and he’s practicing for a regional competition in January _and_ he was also stupid enough to try and get both of his math requirements out of the way first semester. Which, Statistics isn’t so bad,but Calculus is trying to kill him.

“I’m going to fail Calculus,” he tells Kent morosely over FaceTime on night four of the roady—three nights before the exam. “I’m going to fail and have to take it again next semester and then I’ll fail it again.”

He lets his cheek rest on cool granite and ignores the soft laughter coming from his laptop.

He’s at Kent’s place because his desk in his dorm is too small and the island in Kent’s kitchen is perfect for spreading out his various textbooks and problem set reviews.

Not that it will matter.

Because he’s going to fail.

“You’re not going to fail. You have a B+ in the class and the final is only worth 15%. Even if you fail the exam, you’ll pass the class. Remember? We did the math yesterday.”

That’s true. They had.

“Calculus is homophobic,” Eli mutters.

“What?” Kent says. “How?”

“Because I’m gay and it inconveniences me.”

“You’re ridiculous, is what you are. Get up.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re going for a walk.”

“We?”

“Yes. I’m going to hang up. We’re both going to put our shoes on. And then I’m going to call you back on your phone and we’re going to go for a walk.”

“But then I can’t see your face,” Eli whines.

“When was the last time Hawke went out?”

“Ok. Point. I’ll go get my shoes.”

Five minutes later, Eli is bundled up against a surprisingly chill wind with Hawke beside him, nose to the ground and happy, as they make their way to the main strip.

It still baffles Eli how wildly alive the city is—even at 10pm on a Thursday night.

“You should head for the Bellagio,” Kent says, “You can make the 10:10 fountain show if you walk fast. Moving water is good for relaxation. ”

“Oh really?”

“Yep. The internet said.”

“Well. If the internet said.”

He waits to cross the street with several dozen other people, some already drunk and nearly all of them dressed completely inappropriately for the weather. He smiles into his scarf. Well, it’s Kent’s scarf. It smells like him. It’s nice.

“So,” Kent says. “The weekend after we get back. I know that’ll be right after finals for you so it’s totally ok if you just want to like, sleep, or whatever. But I was wondering if you want to come to the Breaking the Ice event? Jessica texted me and they’re looking for volunteers who can skate to help out.

“Breaking the Ice,” Eli repeats. “What’s that?”

“Oh. It’s like this charity thing the Aces do a couple times a year? We have kids from the group home and foster system come and skate with a couple guys from the team and staff. Most of them have never been on the ice before but some of the older ones come to the free camps we host during the summer. It’s kind of a mess, but it’s fun. And I thought you might—“

“I’d love to. When is it? Which guys from the team will be there?”

“It’s Saturday from ten to one. Little kids for the first hour and half, then the older ones. And I think right now it’s me, Tater, Coots, Rushy, Nicky, Matts, Asher, Devs, and Rads. A couple of the vets are going to be there too, and some of the WAGs. Alex won’t be in town but—Oh! You’ll get to meet Kicks. She’s going to be here for most of Christmas break. She gets in next Wednesday, I think.”

“Matts?” Eli says.

Kent sighs, like maybe he’d been hoping Eli would miss the name squished into the middle of his list.

“He’s been cool the last few days. I think Rushy talked to him. They’re pretty close, or I thought they were, so maybe—I dunno. It should be fine, though. If he gives you any trouble I’ll take care of it. Or Tater will, let’s be real.”

Eli laughs softly.

“Tater is not allowed to punch Matts in a rink full of children.”

“I’ll pass that along. Also,” Kent clears his throat. “Did you maybe want to go out? Like on a date. Once you’re done with finals, obviously.”

“A date,” Eli says. “Sure?”

“I just. I did all this research. And I kind of have this list of places I’d like to take you and things I want to do and—“

“Kent. Yes. I want to go on a date.”

“Okay. Good. I just want to do it right, this time.”

Eli skirts a pair of bedazzled drag queens taking pictures with tourists.

“What do you mean, ‘this time’?”

“Well it wasn’t—I couldn’t go all-in before. Because it wasn’t real. I can now.”

“What do you mean, ‘all in’?” Eli says, suspicious. “Do I need to set an expense minimum because—“

“No, I mean.” Kent huffs out a breath. “You know how you said that back home there was like—a set of steps you would take when dating? Dinner. Movies. Truck makeouts.”

“Yeah.”

“I want—I have a version of that. In my head. And I want to do it right now that it’s real.”

“Oh. So like. There’s going to be intent, now? You’re going to _woo_ me?”

“Yes,” Kent says, sounding a little relieved and completely unaware he’s being teased. “Exactly.”

“Yeah? You gunna hold my hand in the car and kiss me at my door at the end of the night?”

“Yes?” Kent seems honestly bewildered, like he hadn’t even consideredanother course of action.“I mean. Probably not _at_ your door because, dorm. And there could be people in the hall. But maybe inside your room? If you invited me inside. Or in the car, if you just wanted me to drop you off. Though kissing over a center console might be a little awkward. Or we could go back to my place and I could kiss you in front of _my_ door because the hallway is private. That’s kind of weird though since it’s my door and not yours. But I’d rather you come home with me anyway so you could spend the night, which it’s fine if you don’t want to but if you do—“

Eli can’t handle this.

“I do,” he says, and his voice is kind of rough—from the cold air, not, like, emotions or anything— so he clears his throat. “Um. I will. Want to spend the night. Probably. So we can plan for that.”

“Right,” Kent says seriously. “Okay, good.”

Eli swallows, finding an empty place along the boardwalk, and pulls himself up onto the concrete balustrade. “Hey, the fountains are about to start, you want me to turn on video so you can watch with me?”

“Yeah,” Kent says. “I’d like that.”

****

On Sunday night, Eli books his flights home for Christmas. He’ll only be there for four days because of competition prep, but it’s something. Eric’s Christmas plans are similarly condensed because of Samwell’s game schedule and they’ve managed to coordinate their arrivals and departures within an hour of each other. Eric’s mom will pick them both up at the Atlanta airport on the 23rd, and Eli’s dad will drop them both off on the 27th. Which is good, because neither of them have had time to talk for more than a few minutes for the past several days, and it doesn’t seem like that’s going to change any time soon. He’s not sure who’s handling finals worse: him or Eric.

“It is so damn cold here,” Eric complains, voice muffled by his scarf. He’s called Eli while walking back from the corner store on a butter run because apparently baking an apple pie in the middle of the night is more important than continuing to write a final paper due in less than 24 hours. “I mean, honestly, it’s no wonder I can’t get any work done. I think my brain is _frozen_.”

“Well. Running around outside after dark probably isn’t helping.”

“You hush. What’s the temperature there?”

Eli makes an uncertain noise, checking the weather app. He’s been cocooned in a fluffy microfiber blanket on Kent’s couch with a dog on one side of him and a cat on the other for the better part of the evening. He is very warm and very cozy and hasn’t been outside since Hawke’s afternoon walk and that was before the sun set.

“Uh. Looks like it’s forty-six degrees.”

“Ugh. Why did I decide to go to school in freaking Massachusetts? It hasn’t been above freezing here in _days_.”

“You know, you could have asked one of the boys to drive you to the store so you didn’t have to walk.”

“I tried. Jack pulled rank and said no one was allowed to—“ Eric drops his voice into a terrible impression of a french-canadiana accent—“facilitate my procrastination tactics.”

“Good man.”

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” Eric says. “And I doubt any of them will have an issue eating procrastination pie when it’s finished.”

“True.”

“So,” Eric says. “You going to tell your parent’s about Kent over Christmas?”

And Eli.

Hadn’t even thought of that.

“No?”

“Why not?”

“Because we’ve been together for like a week? And he’s been on a roady for most of that week, so—“

“Please. You’ve been together for longer than that, you just weren’t admitting it. And it’ll be closer to three weeks by then even with your flawed counting.”

“Still. For my parents the whole me being gay thing has just been, like. A concept. Having a boyfriend would make it real. And on top of that he’s not just some guy, he’s…”

“Kent Parson.”

“Kent Parson,” Eli agrees.

“So,” Eric says. “Did you finish your history paper?”

“Sort of. I’ve had some aphasia the past few days so it’s done but it needs significant editing. Like. I said René Descartes was a ‘special think-y boi’ because I couldn’t remember the word ‘philosopher.’

Instead of laughing like he expected, Eric goes quiet.

“Hey,” Eli says, “that was funny. _I’m_ funny. Even when my brain is sucking it provides amusement.”

“Have you been getting migraines again, too?” Eric asks, and Eli sighs because yes, he has, and he never should have brought up the aphasia.

“Yeah. Only two, though. And they were short.”

“How many seizures have you had this month?

“Three,” he says grudgingly, because there’s no turning back, now.

“Have you told Dr. Boss Lady?”

“ _Yes_ , I’ve talked to her and you know that is _not_ her name. She says it’s probably not a big deal and I should be good as soon as finals are over.”

“Have you been driving?

“No, _Mom_ , I’ve been taking Ubers when I have to go to the library. Any other questions?”

“Why do you need an Uber to go to the library? You live on campus.”

_Shit._

Eli freezes, one hand on Kit’s back, and glances a little desperately around Kent’s apartment—like there’s something within reach that will save him from—

“ _Oh my god,”_ Eric yells. “Are you staying at Kent’s place?!”

“It’s quiet here!” He yells back. “I don’t have to deal with all the bad music and sex noises and horrible shared bathroom like I do at the dorm. And Kent’s kitchen island has space for all of my books and his blankets are _really_ soft and I have to come by every day to take care of Kit anyway and she’d be _lonely_ if I didn’t spend the night _.”_

“Oh my god,” Eric repeats, breathless with laughter this time.

“I’m hanging up on you.”

“That’s fine. I’m back to the Haus anyway. Should I send a housewarming gift since apparently y'all have moved in together? ”

“Goodbye, Eric.”

“Also I know you're new to the whole dating thing but I think cohabitation merits a conversation with your parents. Just FYI.”

Eli hangs up on on him.

And then promptly answers the phone again because Kent is calling.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Kent says, and it sounds like he’s smiling—which, how is that a thing that Eli even knows?—so they must have won the game.

“You win?” he asks, just to make sure.

“Of course,” Kent says loftily, which is kind of fair. The Aces are first in their division and second in their conference and they were playing the _Sabres_.

The fact that Eli can think this with such superiority is a little bewildering. Apparently he is officially a Hockey Person™ now.

How embarrassing.

“Didn’t have time to watch?” Kent says.

“Nope. Finishing a practice problem set and then editing my history paper.”

“You finished the paper? Nice!”

“Yeah,” Eli agrees, and doesn’t mention the extensive editing that will be needed. Mama didn’t raise no fool and Kent would be even worse than Eric. “I also just got finished booking my flights for Christmas, I’ll be gone the 23rd through 27th.”

Kent sighs, overly loud and intentionally dramatic.

“Ugh,” he says, “ _Christmas_. At least I can eat one of your frozen meals instead of Chinese this year.”

“What?”

“It’s tradition,” Kent says. “On Christmas I eat Chinese takeout and watch zombie movies and feel sorry for myself. But this time I’ll have your food to eat. So that’s cool.”

That. Does not sound cool.

“Kent.”

“ _What_. I’m joking. It’s not that bad. Seriously, Christmas isn’t a big deal for me.”

“But—“ It occurs to Eli that this is something they’ve yet to talk about. “You don’t want to see your family? Doesn’t the team have almost a full week off?”

It takes a moment for Kent to answer, but Eli is used to that at this point, so he waits.

“I was an accident. College pregnancy during my mom's wild phase or whatever. I don’t think she even knows who my dad is and my mom and I haven’t ever been very close. She wasn't like, shitty or anything. She took care of me. But she got remarried when I was twelve and I think it was a relief for her when I started billeting at 15. She started over with Chad and now they have two perfect honor roll kids and a little yappy dog. Chad is a hotshot banker and mom has dinner on the table when he gets home every night and volunteers at the church when she’s not doing PTA stuff. I don’t really fit into whatever it is that they have going on now.”

“Kent,” Eli says again. Because that is—incredibly sad.

“I mean,” Kent says. “It could be worse. I know some guys whose families were awful, and then they made it to the show and their parents came crawling back trying to make amends. But like. They can never know if their dad is calling them every week because he wants to make up for being an abusive asshole or if he needs more money for his gambling habit. Are they inviting you to Christmas because they want to see you or because they know you’ll replace the leaky roof? Like. At least that’s not the case, here. Mom doesn’t need my money. She doesn’t need me at all.”

And suddenly Eli’s eyes are hot and his free hand is white-knuckled in the blanket wrapped around him and he has _never_ felt such malice toward a person he’s never met. Because no wonder Kent was so fucked up—no wonder he got his first taste of fame and acted out with drunken rancor and sneering interview soundbites. No wonder. Because he had _no_ one. No family. No friends. And the one person he did have—whatever Jack was for him—nearly died and then abandoned him—which, granted, that wasn’t really Jack’s fault, but—add in Kent’s sexuality and the general hyper-masculine, competitive, nature of hockey to the mix and…No fucking wonder. The fact that Kent is still so kind underneath the ever-cocky media exterior is frankly a miracle.

Eli swallows and tries to console himself with the thought that, now, at least, Kent has Jeff. Kent has Tater. Kent has Rushy. Kent has him.

Kent has him.

Or. Eli has Kent?

They have each other.

Maybe it’s the realization of that responsibility—maybe it’s the fact that Eli doesn’t do emotions well and there are a lot of them happening right now—regardless, whatever it is, he finds himself saying:

“Come with me. For Christmas, I mean. To Georgia. Come home with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These impulsive Georgia boys, amirite?
> 
> Captain's Log: 
> 
> Sorry I nearly missed update day. I didn't realize it was Thursday. It's been very cold here with 25-30mph winds (0/10, do not recommend for bike-riding) and I've spent the last 48 hours or so in a cozy couch cocoon reading through all the material for the class I'm teaching next year. It's a class on graphic narrative, so what that means is I've been sitting on the couch reading my fav comic books and leaving sticky notes all over them/writing up lesson plans and paper prompts. It's a lot of fun. I love my life.
> 
> Anyway, I didn't mean for my endnote last week to be quite as ominous as some of you took it--I'm not one for horrible or long-lasting angst, and there are still a few chapters yet before things Get Real (and are quickly resolved! I'm a happy ending person!). So if that distressed you, don't fret!


	26. Chapter 26

“You did _what_?”

Eric’s voice is just as incredulous as the one in Eli’s head—the one that’s been second-guessing his impulsive invitation to Kent ever since he offered it fifteen hours before.

He pinches his phone between his ear and his shoulder so he can tuck his frozen fingers into his pockets.

“I don’t even know. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Obviously you weren’t _thinking_ , what _were_ you doing?”

“Navigating feelings of impotent rage?”

“Eli.”

“You didn’t hear him, alright? He’s—I don’t think Kent has had a good christmas in years. Maybe ever. And he thinks that’s like. Normal. Which is _not okay_.”

“Sure, that’s sad, but—“

“He usually gets takeout and watches zombie movies by himself but he said that at least this year he could defrost one of my meals from the freezer and eat that instead.”

“Oh dear lord,” Eric says. “That _is_ sad.”

“He doesn’t have anyone else. Like, his mom just up and got family 2.0 and—I don’t know. I just. Want him to be happy.”

“So you’re bringing him home with you.”

“Yes. Maybe. He said we should talk about it in person but that he’d like to come. I just need to, uh. Call my parents.”

And isn’t that a horrifying prospect.

“Right,” Eric agrees. “So just to clarify, in the space of ten minutes last night you went from ‘no I’m not going to tell my parents about Kent that’s silly’ to ‘hey mom and dad, I’m bringing my boyfriend Kent home for christmas, please feed him and love him forever.’”

“Uh. Yeah. That about covers it, yeah.”

Eric laughs. “Only you, Eli. I do hope he comes, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course. I want to meet him.”

And that. Huh. That is something Eli neglected to consider.

Eric giggles a little menacingly.

“I need to go rethink my life choices,” Eli says.

“You do that. Good luck. I need to sleep, talk to you tomorrow night?”

“Kent gets back to tomorrow night. Tuesday morning?”

“After your Calc exam before my Psych exam?”

“Works for me.”

***

Eli waits to call home until 2:10 pm the following day because that means it will be 5:10 pm in Georgia which means his mom will be home but his dad won’t be yet. It’s the coward’s way out and he is unashamed.

He paces the length of Kent’s kitchen while the phone rings.

“Rodríguez residence, how can I help you?”

He exhales because he should have known one of his siblings would answer.

“Hey Bells, it’s me.”

“Oh, hey Eli. ¿Qué lo wa?”

“Nothing. I need to talk to Mamá.”

“Are you in trouble?” she asks suspiciously.

“ _No_.”

“MAMA, ELI IS ON THE PHONE AND HE’S IN TROUBLE!”

“What the fuck—shut _up.”_

“Elijah?”

“Oh. Hi, Mamá.”

“Mijo,” she says, and she’s got her serious voice on. “What have you done?”

“ _Nothing,_ Bella is lying.”

“Why are you calling then? You never call.”

The serious voice has no shifted to one of chastisement.

Jesus.

“Are you hurt?” she asks, “Have your seizures been getting worse?”

“No. No, I’m fine. I’m sorry. I’ve just been really busy with finals. I’m pretty sure I got an A on my exam this morning, though.”

“Okay,” she says.

It’s not okay—he really _should_ call more often, but—

“I wanted to talk about Christmas,” he says.

“What about Christmas? I got your flight itinerary from the email and I spoke with Eric’s mother. Four days is not very long but I guess it will do. Abuela arrives next week and is staying until January sixteenth.”

Her tone heavily implies that Eli should be able to similarly accommodate a month-long visit like his retired seventy-five-year-old grandmother.

“That’s nice. Listen. I—uh.”

He takes a fortifying breath.

“I wanted to know if it would be okay if I brought someone home with me.”

“Brought someone,” she repeats flatly. “Home with you. ¿Qué quieres decir?”

“Mi novio.”

And for some reason saying it like that makes it even more real.

“Tu _novio,_ ”she repeats loudly, and he can hear Bella yell in the background: “Shut up, Eli has a _boyfriend_?” with more disbelief that he thinks is really necessary.

“Elijah,” his mother says, and, oh no, that’s the serious voice again. "¿Tienes novio y no me dijiste nada hasta ahora? ¿Por qué nunca me dices nada? ¿Cómo se llama? ¿Cuánto tiempo llevan juntos?" 

“Mamá,” he sighs.

_“Elijah.”_

“His name is Kent. We’ve been friends since the start of the semester. We’ve sort of been dating for months but just made it official last week.”

Her silence is judgmental.

“I wanted to wait until we’d been together longer to tell y’all. But he doesn’t have any family. He usually spends Christmas eating takeout alone and he was excited because this year he could eat something from the freezer that I’d made instead.”

“Oh,” she says, “Oh that poor child.”

Eli does a little fist-pump. “I can’t leave him alone, Mamá.”

She makes a considering noise. “Habla Español?”

“Ah. I don’t think so.”

“Well. Does he skate with you or—“ she sounds hopeful, “does he play fútbol?

Eli coughs on a laugh. “No. He, um. He plays hockey.”

“Eh. Hockey. Debí saberlo. You and your ice. Is he a good boy? Is he sweet to you?”

“Yes. Very.”

“Well, okay.”

“So. I can bring him?”

“Of course. The boy is not going to eat a frozen meal alone on Christmas.”

“Thank you. Will you tell Papá? Do you think—“

“Your father will be fine. Though he may not like you sharing a room with your Kent.”

“We’re not—We’re uh. Not. We’re taking things slow. And if Abuela is in the guest room there won’t be anywhere else to put him, anyway.”

Oh God. He can see the headline now: Lead scorer in the NHL injured from sleeping on a 25 year old floral couch.

“Slow,” she repeats skeptically. “Claro.”

Bella yells something in the background and she sighs.

“Can he pay for his airplane ticket or—“

“Oh, no,” Eli says, resisting the urge to laugh hysterically. “That’s—money isn’t a problem, for him.”

“Well good. Bring your Kent. I will talk to Papá. We can put the air mattress in your room.”

And they’ll feel free not to use it.

“ _Thank you_.”

Bells yells again and his mamá mutters something under her breath about children shortening her life span.

“I need to go deal with your sister and her drama—we should talk again this weekend so we can make food plans with Abuela. Ask your Kent if he wants anything special.”

“Okay, sounds good. Thank you. I love you.”

“If you really loved me, you would call more often,” she says.

***

Kent’s plane gets delayed twice and with the dreaded calculous exam looming the following morning at 10 am, Eli gives up and goes to sleep just past midnight.

He’s awoken a few hours later to Hawke leaping off the bed and running out of the room, toenails skittering across the floor as she loses traction moving from rug to concrete. There’s a jingle of keys, the sound of bags being dropped on the floor, and then Kent talking softly to Hawke. Shortly afterward, Eli hears the hum of the ice dispenser, the refrigerator opening, and then the distinct and, at this point distressingly familiar, noise of gatorade being poured over ice.

Because Kent is a weirdo.

Things go quiet again and Eli considers getting up because _Kent is home_ but he’s also _so tired_. Eli is still in the warm blurry space just adjacent to sleep, debating the pros and cons of moving, when the mattress dips next to him and Kent crawls under the duvet. He’s still fully clothed and honestly kind of smelly but he sort of gathers Eli to him, inelegant and a little desperate, and then he just—

Exhales.

Long and slow.

“Hey,” Kent says into the back of Eli’s neck.

His breath smells like Blue Frost gatorade.

“Hey,” Eli agrees.

“I missed you.”

It’s easier to say out loud since Kent said it first: “I missed you too.”

“I should probably shower,” Kent murmurs.

“You should definitely shower. And brush your teeth.”

“Alright, asshole.”

Kent doesn’t move for several more seconds, though.

Eli doesn’t mind.

Eventually he does let go of Eli, straightening, and leans over to run his knuckles down Kit’s back. Kit responds with a sleepy cat noise—half purr half chirp— that makes Eli’s heart do things.

“Sorry I woke you up,” Kent murmurs. “I know you’ve got your big test tomorrow. Go back to sleep and I’ll try to be quiet, okay?”

“Mmk.”

Kent presses a kiss to Eli’s temple, then another one to the slope of his cheekbone. Then another next to his mouth. Eli pushes gracelessly at his face, grumbling a little, and he laughs.

“Okay. Okay, sorry. Showering now.”

“Mmk,” Eli agrees again, and goes back to sleep.

When Eli’salarm goes off at 8am, Kent is dead to the world beside him, head half-under one pillow and hugging another one.

Eli stifles a laugh and moves to the living room. His yoga mat is still rolled out on the floor in front of the windows from the day before, and he settles into his routine with only a couple soft groans. He’s going to need to visit the chiropractor when finals are over because his neck is seriously pissed off.

Twenty minutes later he’s sitting in Cobbler Pose—the bottoms of his feet pressed together, thumbs against his ankle bones—Breathing With a Purpose, when Kent stumbles out of the bedroom, arms crossed over his bare chest against the chill. Both cat and dog trail after him, similarly discontent.

Kent squints at Eli for a moment, then moves to sit next to him.

“Hey,” he says, voice scratchy and unfairly sexy. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing?”

“Uh. Breathing exercises?”

“No, I mean,” Kent blushes a little and Eli doesn’t think it will ever get old—how visible it is when Kent is flustered. “That just looks kinda like the shit my therapist makes me do if—uh. Did you have a panic attack? If you did you should have woken me up. Or. You could have—can, in the future— I mean. If that would help. Unless it wouldn’t. Uh. Help.”

And oh, that’s why Kent’s face has been all concerned.

“No, no this is just, like, preventative—I’ve been extra stressed because of finals so I’m supposed to start my day with breathing and being mindful and relaxing and stuff.”

“Oh, okay. Should I leave you alone, or—?”

“Nah. I’m pretty much done anyway. Hungry, though. Omelettes?”

“Yes, please.”

They make breakfast in companionable, sleepy, silence, with lots of lingering touches and stupid smiles and then Kent deals with clean-up while Eli does one last set of practice problems, trying to keep his Mindful Breathing thing going.

“So,” he says, once his problems are done and his plate is empty. “I talked to my mom last night.”

Kent pauses, fork half-way to his mouth.

“Okay?”

“You are officially invited to Rodriguez Christmas.”

“Oh.” He puts his fork down. “Really?”

“Yes? Were you thinking they’d say no?”

“I don’t know. Did you tell them about me or just that you were bringing someone. Or—wait did you say you wanted to bring a friend or a boyfriend?”

“I told her I wanted to bring my boyfriend, Kent. Nothing about—“

He gestures to encompass Kent as a whole.

“The NHL thing?”

“The NHL thing,” Eli agrees. “By the way, your face was on the bus I took yesterday. It’s the one with the red filter where you look all sweaty and intense. I have a picture, remind me to show it to you later.”

“Why were you on the bus?”

“Because I’m not allowed to drive right now and Ubers were getting expensive—which judging by the look on your face I should not have said because now you’re going to try and give me money.”

Kent closes his partially opened mouth, scowling. “I was not.”

Eli rolls his eyes, moving to deposit his plate in the sink.

“Sure. _Anyway_ , no one in my family will recognize you, but my aunt is the definition of a Facebook Mom and the last thing we need is her posting a picture of the kids on Christmas morning with you and I cuddling on the couch in the background or something. So. We should probably tell them? Or at least make sure there aren’t any social media posts happening with your face in them.”

Kent doesn’t say anything, and Eli returns to the bar with pursed lips.

“So?” he asks.

Kent is grinning at him.

“So what?”

“So what do you think we should tell them?”

“Oh, I have no idea. Sorry. Can I think about it?”

“Yes?”

“Okay.”

Kent is still smiling.

Eli is…a little unnerved.

“Why are you smiling like that,” he asks. “It’s weird.”

“Are we going to cuddle on the couch on Christmas morning?” Kent asks.

And anyone else might be joking, but Eli is 99 percent sure Kent is not.

“Uh. Probably? I mean. I’d like to. On Christmas eve too. And Boxing day.”

“Cool,” Kent says, and takes another bite of his omelette.

Eli can’t decide is he should roll his eyes or be touched.

He doesn’t get a chance to decide, however, because Hawke gets up from where she’s been awkwardly lounging over Kent’s feet, and moves purposefully over to Eli. She just as purposefully sits down beside him, and then headbutts his knee.

So much for the stress-relieving powers of yoga.

Kent’s fork scrapes loudly across his plate.

“Wait,” he says. “Was that—?”

Hawke paws at Eli’s shin, whining, and then headbutts him again.

Eli sighs.

“Yeah. Can you pack up all my stuff so we can leave as soon as it’s over? And drive me to my exam? I was kind of assuming you were going to anyway, but—“

“No. I mean, yes, of course. Are you—bedroom?”

Kent is half-standing, his butt hovering uncertainly above the stool.

“Hey,” Eli catches Kent’s face between his hands. “I’m fine, remember? Hawke and I are just going to go lay down and if anything bad happens she’ll let you know. Okay?”

“Okay. Is it—can I come with you?”

And that. Is unexpected.

Eli’s hands slide down to rest on Kent’s shoulders.

“You want to watch me have a seizure?”

The thought of Kent seeing him like that is…not good. Which is stupid, because it’s not like there’s anything to be embarrassed about but—

“It’s not that I want to _watch,_ ” Kent says, wincing a little. “I just. Want to be with you?” He shrugs a little helplessly. “Sorry. It that weird? That’s probably weird.”

“No. It’s really sweet, actually. But I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that yet. Can we talk about it later? I need to—”

“Yeah. Of course. I’ll just—” Kent jabs a finger in the direction of Eli’s books “—get everything ready so you won’t be late.”

“Yeah. Cool.”

“Cool,” Kent agrees.

“Hey,” Eli says.

“Yeah?”

“Breathe,” Eli reminds him.

“Right.”

He kisses him, though Kent doesn’t really reciprocate, and then retreats to the bedroom to find his bag, Hawke at his heels.

“I’m packing you a lunch,” Kent yells a few seconds later from the kitchen. “Do you want blue, red or yellow gatorade?”

“Orange,” he yells back, just because he knows Kent hates it.

“Heathen,” Kent says. “You’re getting red.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. ¿Qué lo wa?”( What’s up?)  
> 2\. “Mijo,” (Son)  
> 3\. “Home with you. ¿Qué quieres decir?” (What do you mean?)  
> 4\. “Mi novio.” (My boyfriend)  
> 5\. "¿Tienes novio y no me dijiste nada hasta ahora? ¿Por qué nunca me dices nada? ¿Cómo se llama? ¿Cuánto tiempo llevan juntos?” (You have a boyfriend and you didn’t tell me until now? Why do you never tell me anything? What’s his name? How long have you been together?)  
> 6\. “Habla Español?” (Does he speak Spanish?)  
> 7\. “Eh. Hockey. Debí saberlo. (I should have known)  
> 8\. “Slow,” she repeats skeptically. “Claro.” (Sure—with sarcasm)
> 
>  
> 
> A note on Eli's Spanish: Eli's mom is Dominican and his father is from Spain. He speaks mostly Dominican Spanish because that's the Spanish I'm most familiar with. That being said, if you see any issues, please let me know! It's been a while so I'm rusty.  
>  
> 
> Captain's Log: 
> 
> The new semester starts on Monday and I'm so excited to be teaching a class that is A. entirely crafted by me and B. all about comics and graphic narrative. Yay! Here's to hoping I've got a good group of engaged, talkative, undergrads. See you next week!


	27. Chapter 27

On Thursday afternoon, Kent stops by CVS for ice cream on the way home.  
Eli’s last final—the history paper—was due at 1pm, and Kent can’t decide if Eli will be sleeping when he gets home or wanting to celebrate. Maybe wanting to celebrate sleepily? Regardless, he’s pretty sure Eli won’t want to go anywhere, so. Ice cream.

It occurs to him as he’s standing in the cold section however, that, despite taking Eli for froyo at least a dozen times, he doesn’t actually know what his favorite flavor is. And just because Eli occasionally sneaks a spoonful of the Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia that Kent’s grocery delivery service stocks in his freezer, doesn’t mean that’s what Eli would choose for himself. Honestly, this is something they should have talked about already at this point in their relationship and Kent is a little disappointed in himself.

He considers calling Eli to ask, but if Eli is sleeping he doesn’t want to wake him up. And he can’t call Eric because Samwell is in the middle of playing a game and even if he managed to catch Eric between periods he probably shouldn’t be interrupting an NCAA hockey game for ice cream related inquiries.

In the end, Kent gets four different kinds of frozen yogurt and three kinds of ice cream and carries his armful of plastic bags to the car without shame. He’ll invite some of the boys over later and they’ll take care of whatever Eli doesn’t want.

When Kent struggles to unlock the door to his condo twenty minutes later, trying to be quiet and failing because his hands are full of plastic bags—Eli would probably point out that had Kent remembered the reusable canvas bags in his car the crinkling would not be an issue—he’s a little surprised to hear music.

And then he finally opens the door and gets a good look inside and.

Well.

Eli sleeping, he was prepared for.

He is not prepared for Eli in his kitchen wearing the Louboutins.

He is, however, prepared to admit it now: They’re sex shoes.

Because _holy shit._

And god. How _stupid_ had he been to laugh when Eli first showed him the picture of those shoes on his phone. Because there is nothing weird or embarrassing or whatever preconceived notions he’d had about Eli in those shoes.

And it looks like the only thing Eli is wearing apart from the shoes is Kent’s All Star jersey from the year before. It falls to mid-thigh on him, black and white and red and Kent is going to need a moment.

Maybe a couple of moments.

Eli grins, crossing his arms, and hitches one hip against the countertop.

“Take a picture,” he says, “it’ll last longer.”

“I don’t want to take a picture,” Kent answers. “I want to stand here and look at you.”

“Oh. Well.” Eli bites his lip and that really doesn’t help matters. “That’s fine too.”

And Kent hadn’t noticed at first, because he was a little preoccupied with all the muscular calf and thigh on display, but Eli’s hair is different. It’s been growing out of a subtle undercut for a while, but now the sides are clipped close to his skull in a sharp tapered fade and the curls on top are a little looser than normal, sort of pulled up and wild and Kent is having flashbacks to being fourteen and fantasizing about making out with guy with a mohawk.

It’s a good look, is what he’s saying.

Kent would just stand there and keep ogling him but the ice cream is actually kind of heavy and cutting off the circulation to his fingers.

He moves to set the bags on the counter.

“Hi,” he says, because he’s a moron.

Eli laughs.

“Hi,” he agrees. “Why did you bring half the CVS cold section home with you?”

Kent had been intending to play it cool but that goes right out the window.

“I didn’t know what your favorite kind of ice cream was. And I didn’t want to call to ask in case you were asleep. And Eric is in the middle of a game. So I tried to remember the flavors you’ve gotten before when we—“

And thank god Eli kisses him because he probably would have continued talking through his entire thought process.

“It’s mint chocolate chip,” Eli says against his mouth, laughing when Kent does a little fist pump because that was one of his guesses.

“I knew that.”

“You didn’t.”

“I didn’t,” Kent concedes.

He brings one hand up to cup the back of Eli’s head—rubbing his fingers against the grain of newly close-cropped hair at the back of his skull.

“You like it?” Eli asks.

“So much.”

“I was way overdue. I decided to try a new place just around the corner as a reward for getting through finals. Kinda pricy, but worth it, I think.”

Kent kisses him again because otherwise he might offer to pay for all of Eli’s haircuts from here on out at any place Eli chooses, regardless of price, except Eli doesn’t like when he does things like that. So Kent lets his hands slide over the wings of Eli’s shoulders, fingers tracing the _Parson_ on his back, trying not to feel quite so viciously possessive and utterly failing.

In the shoes, Eli is as tall as him and Kent likes it—them being eye-to-eye.

“Are you cooking anything, uh, time-sensitive?” he asks, glancing at the vegetables on the island.

“Nope. Tater and Jeff invited themselves over, though. They should be here around seven and—“ he smirks a little “—I should probably change before then.”

Kent glances at the clock on the oven, toying with one edge of the jersey Eli’s wearing, knuckles against bare skin.

“You want to make out on the couch for the next twenty minutes then?” he asks.

“I believe I do. We should put the ice cream away first, though.”

“Yeah,” Kent agrees, not moving, leaning in to kiss Eli again.

Eli turns his head at the last minute and Kent whines at him.

“Ice cream. Freezer.”

“Right,” he says into Eli’s neck. “In just a second.”

“ _Kenneth_.”

“Not my name,” he objects, but he does take a step back.

They have to use their Tetris skills to get everything to fit in the freezer properly because it’s already pretty full of Eli’s cooking, and then, when they’re finally successful, Kent sucks a mark onto the curve of Eli’s throat in celebration of their achievement.

Or something.

Kent tugs on the hem of the jersey.

“Are you wearing anything under this?” he asks, resisting the urge to check for himself.

“Kent Parson,” Eli says, grinning. “What kind of boy do you think I am? Of course. I’ve got underwear on.”

Kent cant decide if he’s disappointed or relieved by this information.

“It’s your underwear, though,” Eli says, “If that matters.”

Kent makes an aggrieved noise, knocking their foreheads together, and Eli laughs at him.

“Couch?” Eli asks.

“Yes, please.”

***

The Aces have a home game the following night. Eli doesn’t go because he’s still recovering from finals and already committed to helping with the Breaking the Ice event the following day and, of the two, Kent would rather Eli be on the ice _with_ him, than sitting in the stands watching him play.

Not that both wouldn’t be nice.

Regardless, it’s a good game—solid play on both sides—but the Aces win due primarily to Rushy’s fantastic goal-tending, and the second lines’ offensive play.

Vegas and Carolina had made a trade the week before: One of the Ace’s veterans and a third round draft pick for Alexander Oshepkoff. The Aces have needed another solid center after losing Mark the year before, and Kent was pretty pleased with the quick chemistry Alex—or Oshie as he was quickly dubbed—found in his first practice with the Aces. Clearly it wasn’t a fluke if tonight’s game is any indicator, and the team, high on its win, retires to their favorite bar to “properly” welcome Oshie to their ranks.

Kent spends the first half hour talking to him about an assortment things—apartments, travel, stick curvature, food, cats—before Tater muscles his way between them and engages Oshie in what sounds like a very angry conversation in Russian, but judging by their facial expressions is perfectly friendly. Tater had been ecstatic to hear about the trade, because apparently he and Alex played together for a year in the RSL before they were both drafted to NHL teams. Oshie has been staying in one of Tater’s guest rooms for the past five days and Kent will be completely unsurprised if it becomes a permanent arrangement.

Kent is planning to only have a beer or two before heading home to eat a late dinner— Eli was finishing a cooking video when he left for the arena and whatever he’d made smelled _amazing—_ but one round of shots led to another and the next thing he knows it’s nearly midnight and he’s leaning pretty heavily against Jeff’s shoulder, smiling contentedly at the various pockets of his teammates surrounding them. Matts and Rushy are playing a friendly round of pool, while Nicky, Asher, and Coots are playing a less-friendly and increasingly dangerous game of darts. A few of the call-ups are trying desperately to look cool while talking to a group of girls at the bar, and the veterans are holding court in the booth next to them, beers in hand, watching with amusement as Tater and Oshie get progressively more exuberant.

“Hey,” Asher calls to Tater, “another round of shots?”

“As you wish!” he yells back.

Apparently Oshie introduced him to the Princess Bride a few nights before and now he won’t stop quoting the movie. His new favorite word is “inconceivable.”

“Or,” Rushy says, laughing, “Maybe we should slow down on the shots, eh?”

“Inconceivable!” Tater shouts.

And there it is.

“We have a good team,” Kent says to Jeff.

“We do,” Jeff agrees.

“But actually—“ Kent turns to look at him, to make sure Jeff know’s he’s serious. “I have a good…everything, right now. I’m like. Really happy. And shit.”

“And shit,” Jeff agrees.

“You made it happen, though,” Kent says, because he doesn’t think Jeff is getting it.

“I was so fucked up before. And then you yelled at me and made me get a therapist.And—“

Kent comes to a sudden, stunning, realization. “You introduced me to Eli.”

“Well. Not exactly,” Jeff says, “but sure, I’ll take credit for that.”

“He never would have come to the Aces practice if you weren’t there. And he’d still just be thinking I was a giant douchebag who parks in handicap spaces. And I’d probably still _be_ a giant douchebag who parks in handicap spaces. Oh my god.”

“I take it things with Eli are going well?” Jeff asks dryly, and it’s clearly a diversion but it works because of course things with Eli are going well.

Eli is his _favorite person_.

“His ass,” Kent says somberly, “is a paradox.”

“Excuse me?”

“Eli’s ass,” Kent says, raising his voice a little. “It shouldn’t be allowed.”

“Eli’s ass shouldn’t be allowed,” Jeff repeats. “Because it’s a paradox?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, are we really talking about Eli’s butt right now? Is that what’s happening?”

“Yes.”

Jeff glances around and Kent remembers that his affection for Eli and his butt is supposed to be a secret. They’re alone in the booth, though, so it’s okay.

“It’s okay,” Kent says. “No one is listening. I can talk about Eli’s butt if I want.”

“Fine,” Jeff sighs. “Tell me why Eli’s ass is a paradox.”

“Well,” Kent says. “It’s just—so big? For someone so small? But not too big. It’s like the perfect handful. Two handfuls. Which is good. Because I’ve got two hands.”

He looks at his hands, considering.

_Yes. Good._

“Uh huh,” Jeff says. “Let’s get you some water, bud.”

He pulls on Kent’s arm.

Kent pulls back.

“I love him,” Kent says, still staring at his open palms. “And I know it’s too soon for that or whatever, but I do. So much. And it’s—I don’t know how.”

“You don’t know how to what?”

“Love him,” Kent says, a little desperately. “Right. The way he deserves.”

“I think you’ll be able to figure it out.”

“He’s just. He’s so important, Jeff.”

“I know, kiddo,” he says, and Kent feels like he might actually understand. “I know. Let’s get you some water, okay? And then I’ll take you home to him.”

And that.

That sounds like like a _great_ idea.

“Yeah, okay.”

***

Kent wakes up to an empty bed, a mild hangover, and embarrassingly vivid memories of the night before.

He stumbles into the kitchen where Eli is cooking and plants himself, face down, at the breakfast bar.

“Kill me,” he says.

“Nah,” Eli says, sliding a gatorade in front of him. “I’ve gotten kind of attached to you. Here. You want some sausage? Grease is supposed to be good for hangovers, right?”

He eats his sausage and tries to think of ways that he can show Eli he appreciates him without spending money.

He’s not very successful.

“I need to book my airfare for Christmas,” Kent says later, as they’re driving to the rink. "Will you get mad if I upgrade you to first class?”

“Yes.”

“But I’m asking you beforehand instead of just doing it.”

Eli gives him an unimpressed look.

“But I don’t want to sit in _economy_.”

“Then don’t sit with me and the rest of the peasants. Sit in first class alone.”

“But you and your family are going to be hosting Christmas, so I won’t have to pay for a hotel, or get a rental car, or pay for food. Getting you home in comfort is like, the least I can do to repay you.”

“Do you really expect me to believe that you haven’t already bought me an obscenely expensive gift?”

And. Yeah. Eli has him there.

“Please?” he tries.

“No.”

“Fine,” Kent sighs. “I guess it’s only three hours.”

“Good. I’ll wave as we pass you to sit with the unwashed masses.”

“No, I mean, I’ll get a seat with you in economy. It’s only three hours. I’ll deal.”

“You’re ridiculous. You realize I’ll have the window so Hawke can be in the corner. That means you’d have to sit in a middle seat.”

Kent winces. He may not be the biggest hockey player but he’s definitely broader than the average adult.

“No big deal. I’ll cuddle with you.”

“No you won’t. The last thing we need is someone taking a picture of you plastered all over me on a flight to Georgia.”

“I’ll pretend to very platonically fall asleep on your shoulder.”

“Like that’s better?”

He has a point.

Eli sighs before Kent can come up with a response.

“We’d have a lot more privacy in first class, huh?”

“Yes?” Kent glances at Eli and immediately corrects himself because that’s Eli’s ‘I might cave if you present a compelling argument’ face.

“ _Yes_ ,” Kent says. “So much more privacy. We’ll have more space, and once the flight starts they close the curtain thing so no one from the rest of the plane can come through. Which means that our bathroom stays a lot cleaner because fewer people are using it but it _also_ means that we could probably get away with some cuddling. Definitely some discrete hand-holding under our blankets. Did you know we’ll get free blankets in first class?”

Eli laughs and Kent knows he’s won.

“Fine. _If_ there are two seats next to each other in first class that are still available you can upgrade me to sit with you.”

Kent leans over the center console, lips puckered, eyes still on the road.

Eli makes a disgusted noise, but kisses him anyway.

“Thank you,” Kent says, reaching for Eli’s hand.

Eli accepts it, lacing their fingers together, and rubs his thumb absently against thecold-chapped skin of Kent’s first knuckle. Kent should probably moisturize more. Or get a pair of gloves. Maybe both. Eli’s hands are embarrassingly soft in comparison.

Eli doesn’t seem to mind the roughness of his skin, though. He isn’t even looking at Kent, judgmental about the state of his hands or otherwise. He’s half-smiling at a woman in the car next to them who’s still wearing her coat and scarf so her dog can hang his head out the open window—tongue lolling and deliriously happy.

Kent wonders if maybe that’s how he feels:

Deliriously happy.

Hawke notices the other dog and Eli laughs, his hand tightening around Kent’s, tugging a little as he turns in his seat to talk to her about the ‘handsome boy’ next to them and Kent has to look away before he gets into an accident or says something stupid he can’t take back.

It might be easier if Eli didn’t have a mouth or collarbones or fingers—if his new haircut didn’t accentuate the bones in his skull and the slope of soft paler skin at the nape of his neck.

It seems impossible that everything Eli is can exist in just one person.

And yet.

There he is.

Kent brings their joined hands to his mouth, kissing Eli’s knuckles, because his chest hurts and he has to do _something_ and that’s the least damning action he can think of.

He wonders how soon is too soon to say ‘I love you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some awesome fanart for this chapter by starsgosquawking on Tumblr! Go yell about how awesome it is!
> 
> art
> 
> Next chapter is the Breaking the Ice event which will be told from...Matts' point of view? Indeed.
> 
> Captain's log: The first week of school is going well! My students seem engaged/interested in the material (who wouldn't be, our first reading is Fraction's Hawkeye) and every single one of them has an A currently because they all turned in their first two homework assignments. I know that may not sound like something to celebrate, but I don't think I've even gotten past assignment #1 without at least one "forgetting" or turning the assignment in late. So. Yay!
> 
> I take my language exam next week and am starting to seriously focus on reading lists for quals. If anyone else has done exams for a fandom-centric dissertation with primary focus areas in gender, race, feminism, queer theory, crip theory, and graphic narrative, and you have any advice/must-read suggestions, please let me know! My theory list is obviously a broader purview, but I'm trying to keep my novel/source works within a 20/21st century post-war constraint. I am both excited and also a tad bit overwhelmed. Ahh!
> 
> Anyway, see you next week!


	28. Chapter 28

Justin Matthews has never been good with kids.

Hell, he wasn’t good with kids even when he _was_ one.

He was an only child, the youngest by a considerable margin of all his cousins, and the whole hockey thing didn’t leave much time or capacity for socializing. He never went to camp unless it was a hockey camp, was homeschooled past the third grade so he could dedicate more time to practicing, and even once he left for Shattuck at fourteen and had freedom away from his parent’s stringently enforced schedule, his father’s continuing refrain—engrained since mite games—remained: _those boys are not your friends, they’re your competition._

Which, sure, Matts had friends _now_. Sort of. But those relationships were built on grown-up things, or at least grown-up hockey-player things, like on-ice chemistry, video games, mutual hatred, alcohol, or some combination therein. He wasn’t good at talking to _adults_ about most things outside of those categories, so talking to children definitely wasn’t in his wheelhouse. He’d managed okay so far at fan events, taking pictures with gap-toothed pre-teens, signing jerseys and tossing pucks over the glass during warm-ups. But he doesn’t think he’s actually had a conversation with anyone under the age of ten in over a decade, nor does he particularly want to.

So why, exactly, management was so insistent that he be part of the Aces’ Breaking the Ice event, he doesn’t know.

Well. He does. He know’s they’re hoping he’ll become one of the franchise faces, and god knows he wants that to happen too, but while his on-ice production has been good, his off-ice chemistry with the team is admittedly lacking. Because apparently Kent Parson isn’t the chill party-boy Matts thought he was and instead wants the locker room to be a Safe Space or some shit.

But whatever. If holding some orphan kids’ hands and hauling them around the ice for a while is going to get him the contract extension he wants, well. Here he is. Judging by the parking garage, he’s pretty sure he’s one of the last ones to arrive, which is confirmed when he pushes his way into a full locker room.

“Hey,” Asher says as Matts sits in his stall, trying to down the last of his coffee and pull his skates out of his bag at the same time. “You’re late.”

And Asher had actually been pretty cool right up until the whole thing with Eli and Rushy. Now the kid is a passive-aggressive asshole.

“He’s here, which is the important thing,” Rads says, and then raises his voice to address the room at large. “Okay. Overview if this is your first time: The under-tens are getting kitted up right now and they’ll be on the ice in a few minutes. Most of them haven’t skated before and the little ones might end up wanting to be carried. Just go with whatever they’re comfortable with. In an hour we’ll clear the ice, take a break, and then the over-tens get their turn. Several of _those_ kids have been coming to our camps so that will be more hockey-focused rather than skating-focused and they know what they’re doing—Rushy—“

“Yeah,” Rushy laughs, “I learned my lesson last time. I’ll wear my pads for the big kids.”

“What happened last time?” Asher asks Coots.

“Got hit in the neck with a slapshot,” Coots murmurs. “He flopped around gasping like a fish for a couple seconds and ended up with a massive bruise. The poor kid thought she’d killed him. I’m surprised you haven’t heard this story. We don’t like to let him forget the time his career was almost ended by a kid at a philanthropy event.”

“Hey,” Rushy says. “She was _seventeen_ and she’d been in the Little Aces program on scholarship since she was eight. She’s playing in college this year.”

“Which is why he’s wearing his pads for the older kids this time,” Rads finishes. “Anyway, these kids are in foster care or group homes. A lot of them have been separated from their siblings, relatives, etc., so be aware of that. Don’t bring up family or Christmas. Cool?”

And that just solidifies Matts’ decision to just talk to them as little as possible.

There are nods all around and Matts realizes he should be putting on his skates.

“Any questions?”

“Uh,” Asher says, looking nervous. “What _should_ we talk to them about?”

Some of the guys laugh, but Matts is right there with him.

“Most of them will direct the conversation, but if you get a shy one, just focus on the skating. If they don’t want to talk, it’s fine. This isn’t a therapy session its a philanthropy event.”

“Could be both,” Nicky leans over to whisper to Rushy, “I know shooting pucks at your face always brightens _my_ spirits.”

“And watching you get all pissy when I block them brightens _mine_ ,” Rushy agrees.

“See?” Rads says. “You shouldn’t have any issue interacting with them. Apparently you’re all still children yourselves. Let’s get out there.”

There’s a mass exodus for the ice, but Matts still has to lace his skates and then Rads is sitting down in Asher’s vacated stall next to him, which can’t be good.

“I know I’m late, sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he glances at the door, making sure that everyone else has left, then leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.

Sometimes it’s painfully clear that Rads is a dad.

“Eli is here,” Rads says, nodding toward Kent’s stall where there’s a relatively conspicuous figure-skating bag tucked next to the usual pile of stick tape and half-empty gatorade bottles. “Is that going to be a problem for you?”

“No,” Matts says, eyes on his feet.

“When we’re done today, he’s going to be in the locker room. If that makes you uncomfortable, you can stay on the ice until he’s gone, but—“

“It’s _fine_ ,” Matts says, tightening his laces with a little more force than is strictly necessary. “I get it. It’s not a problem.”

_I’m_ not a problem, he means. Because apparently he is. Enough of one that the alternate captain stayed behind to give him a lecture. Jesus.

“You’re a good kid,” Rads says. “But Eli is too. I know you and Rushy seem fine, but —”

But Rushy is a six-foot-two hockey player with girlfriend and it’s easy to pretend that he’s straight. They’re also friends. Maybe. Which, yeah, is definitely different than Eli who is small and kind of breakable-looking and a _figure skater_ for god’s sake. He’s like a living stereotype. And Matts hasn’t actually had a conversation with him. Ever. But it’s not like he has a real problem with the kid.

“ _Seriously_ ,” Matts interrupts. “I get it. I shouldn’t have said that shit before and I won’t bring it up again. Okay?” He ties his second pair of laces even though the skate still isn’t quite fitting right because this conversation needs to be over. “I promise.”

“Okay,” Rads says. “Good.”

He makes a break for the ice because the prospect of two dozen kids under the age of ten is actually less dire than remaining in the locker room with Rads in dad-mode.

He’s got the “I’m not mad, I’m disappointed” vibe down a little too well.

The thing is, skating with a bunch of uncoordinated children actually isn’t that bad. They’re like, bizarrely non-competitive and super pleased about going in a straight line, or completing a circuit of the rink without falling. And they mostly just talk _at_ him rather than expecting him to talk back, which is it’s own relief. It’s kind of nice, actually.

And then Nicky points to a kid who’s clinging to the boards looking distressingly close to tears and says, “hey, you got that?” like Matts is supposed to have any idea how to handle an emotional kindergartener in a puffy camouflage coat.

“Uh, sure,” he says, and skates over.

“Hi,” he says, crouching a little. “My name is Justin. But most of the guys here call me Matts. So I guess either works? What’s your name?”

The kid just looks at him, eyes wide and blue and wet looking. He’s wearing a tiny Aces snapback with Kent’s number on it which is actually pretty adorable.

Matt’s taps the brim of the hat.

“Do you, uh, like hockey?”

And the kid bursts into tears.

_Shit, shit, shit._

He glances over at the camera guy who—yes—is definitely filming this.

“Oh. Oh, dude, no. Don’t cry. What’s wrong?”

He goes down to his knees, panicked, one hand rubbing awkwardly at the kid’s back. “Hey, come on. Just—tell me what’s wrong and I’ll fix it, okay? Are you hungry? Do you…need to go to the bathroom?”

Wait, no. That’s what you check when infants are crying, not kids.

“Do you not want to skate?” he tries. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

And then, quite suddenly, Matts has an armful of sobbing child and a cold, kind of snotty, nose smushed up against his neck.

“I _do_ ,” the kid gasps out wetly. “I _do_ want to skate. Just not hockey skate. I want to Olympics skate.”

“I don’t—hockey players go to the Olympics. Oh. _Oh_ , you mean figure skate?”

A nod.

“With music. And spins.”

Which, Matts has no idea how any of that works, but it’s an easy enough fix.

“Alright. Okay. Hey, what’s your name?”

“Jesse.”

“Okay, Jesse. They’ve got figure skates at the rental counter, let’s go swap yours and then we’ll find someone who can teach you some spins. Sound good?”

The kid isn’t actively crying anymore, just sniffing a little, but he doesn’t seem entirely appeased either.

Matts leans back, trying to get a better look at his face.

“Hey. What’s up?”

“There aren’t any other boys wearing figure skates, here,” Jesse whispers, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his jacket. “And Charlie said only girls can figure skate, even though that’s a _lie_.”

Matts has to actively suppress a laugh at the sheer malice behind the world ‘lie.’

“Okay, well, Charlie is a dic—uh, dumb dumb—“ Jesse’s face brightens considerably—“so you should just ignore him. Boys can figure skate just like girls can play hockey. I mean. There’s a guy on my team named Jeff who used to be a figure skater when he was a kid—he even won, uh, I think it’s called World Juniors? He won a gold medal there before he started playing hockey. And Kicks is a girl but she plays hockey for _Stanford_ right now,” he points to Kicks who is demonstrating, for a yelling group of onlookers, what a cross-check looks like. Rushy, her victim, is possibly cheering the loudest.

Jesse looks a little scared of her, which is fair because people should be.

“Anyway, point is, skate however you want. Gender doesn’t matter.”

Oh my god. He sounds like Jeff.

“Now, lets go get you the right skates, okay?”

“Okay,” Jesse agrees.

He holds Jesse’s hand, keeping him upright, out of the rink and back to the rental desk. Then he helps lace the new skates and holds his hand back.

The only problem is that, as they step onto the ice again, Jeff is nowhere to be seen.

“Uh,” he says, stymied.

Because it’s not like there’s multiple players on the team who also have figure skating backgrounds that he can just—

Oh.

Well.

Not on the team, no.

But there is Eli.

Eli, who’s currently skating circles around a group of kids that are shrieking with laughter as they try and fail to tag him. He’s wearing patterned black leggings that transition seamlessly into black skates and a long-sleeved knit grey tunic-shirt thing that flutters around behind him, just out of reach of the kids’ flailing hands.

Matts takes a fortifying breath.

“Hey,” he says, crouching next to Jesse. “Look over there. That’s Eli. He’s a figure skater, see?”

Jesse’s eyes widen.

“He’s _really_ fast,” Jesse says, which, he’s not wrong. “And he has cool hair.” And Matts can’t really argue with that either.

“You want me to introduce you to him?”

“Yes! _Please_.”

“Okay. Sweet. You wait here, I’ll be right back.”

Matts doesn’t really have a chance to think about what he’s going to _say_ to Eli, but the fear that Jesse might start crying again if he takes too long is enough to send him off across the ice with intent.

And then, as luck would have it, the pack of kids chasing Eli more or less herd him, skating backward to avoid them, directly into Matts’ path.

It’s a minor collision, and Matts is able to get an arm around Eli’s waist to steady him so no one falls down except for a few of the kids, but they’re already more or less covered in ice and apparently made of rubber, so that’s fine.

“Sorry, sorry,” Eli says, laughing as Matts gets him upright again. Except then he turns fully and gets a look at Matts’ face and—

Eli flinches a way from him; a visceral, full-body movement that actually makes him feel sort of nauseous even though he hasn’t done anything wrong.

“Sorry,” Eli repeats again, putting some space between them. His voice is entirely devoid of the laughter that formed it moment before. “My bad.”

“No, it was my fault. I, uh, I was actually coming over to ask if you’d—there’s a kid over there” he gestures to where said kid is waiting—Jesse waves helpfully— “his name is Jesse and he wants to be a figure skater. I helped him get the right skates but I was wondering if you could help? Because I have no idea about, uh—that stuff.”

A few of the kids who had been chasing Eli run into his legs, clinging, and he automatically reaches down to steady them, hands drifting over shoulders and heads.

“Sure, yeah. Let me just—“

And then Tater snowplows to a stop beside them, showering the kids clinging to Eli with ice.

They scream appreciatively.

“Eli,” Tater says. “Everything okay?”

And Matts is a little pissed that apparently Tater decided Eli needed rescuing from him or whatever, but—

“Yeah,” Eli says, “Justin was just—“

“Matts,” Matts says.

“ _Matts_ was just telling me about a future figure skater. I’m going to go teach him a few things, can you take over here?”

It seems like they have a brief non-verbal conversation, Eli’s hand resting, almost warningly, on Tater’s comparatively massive forearm, and then Tater is grinning broadly and goading the kids into chasing him instead and Matts is leading Eli over to meet Jesse, trying to ignore the fact that several of his teammates are watching him a little too closely for comfort.

The minute they’re within reach, Jesse attaches himself to Matts’ leg, weirdly shy as Eli introduces himself, and then, when he tries to pry Jesse’s fingers off the hem of his jacket to hand him off to Eli, the waterworks threaten a return.

“Hey no,” Matts says, “I thought you wanted to learn figure skating. Eli is like. The best figure skater I know”—and that isn’t even a lie—“so what’s wrong?”

“I wanna stay with _you_ ,” Jesse says, tears clinging to his eyelashes.

“Okay, alright. I’ll stay too then. Eli can teach us both how to figure skate, okay?” and _oh my god how do parents ever discipline their children, Matts is most massive pushover._

Jesse grins, abruptly tear-free.

“Okay.”

When Matts looks back up at Eli, relieved, Eli has his bottom lip tucked between his teeth, frowning at him. And not—not in a bad way, or at least Matts doesn’t think it’s bad, it’s more like Eli is confused.

Eli blinks, expression clearing, and leans forward, hands on knees, to address Jesse.

“I dunno,” Eli says, mock serious. “Some hockey players are pretty bad students. I tried to teach Kent how to do a _really_ easy jump the other day and it took him almost an hour to get it right. I bet you’ll be a faster learner than Matts, what do you think?”

Jesse looks up at him, considering.

“Probably,” he agrees, and reaches his free hand toward Eli.

Eli accepts it and they both move slowly forward, tugging Jesse along, a little wobbly, but surprisingly stable, all things considered, between them.

“Are you friends with Kent Parson?” Jesse asks Eli. “He’s the captain of the Aces. We made thank you cards for him because he paid for all of us at Hyer House to come here special even though we live so far away. And he gave us all hats. And we get to stay in a _hotel_ tonight _and_ go to the game tomorrow.”

That’s news to Matts.

He meets Eli’s eyes over Jesse’s head but Eli looks equally surprised by this information.

“Yes, I’m friends with Kent,” Eli says. “He’s a good guy, even if he’s not very good at figure skating. Luckily,” he adds conspiratorially, “he’s really good at hockey, though.”

“I saw a bus with his face on it this morning,” Jesse says.

“No kidding. Is it the picture that’s all red-tinted where he looks super serious?”

“Yeah!”

“Cool. The bus I take to the library sometimes has that same picture on it.”

Jesse squints up at Eli, stumbling a little because he’s not paying attention to the ice anymore. Matts tightens his grip on Jesse’s hand.

“Why do you take the bus?” Jesse asks. “I thought rich people had cars.”

“Oh,” Eli says. “Well. I can’t drive right now. And I’m not a rich person, so.”

“You dress fancy like a rich person,” Jesse says.

Eli splutters a little. “Thank you? I think. And I didn’t—this outfit was a gift, actually.” His eyes cut across the ice to Kent—who’s ostensibly teaching a little stick-handling drill but spending more time watching Matts than the puck. “Anyway, you’re doing really well. Do you want to try a spin?”

Completely unsurprisingly, he does.

As do several other kids, it turns out.

They accumulate four girls and one more boy and twenty minutes later, Matts finds himself carrying a toddler with purple mittens and a pom pom on her matching hat, having a very serious conversation with her about bananas while Eli takes turns guiding the other kids, one of which is the toddler’s older sister, through slow, simple, figure skating exercises.Jesse only lets go of Matts’ hand when it’s his turn to try something, sometimes insisting that Matts’ accompany him and it’s—

Fun.

Eli is soft-spoken but encouraging, knowing just when to do something stupid or funny to get a frustrated kid to laugh, and he seamlessly includes Matts in his jokes like they’re a team or something even though Matts is mostly just a piece of furniture that the kids cling to while watching Eli demonstrate things.

All the kids hug him at the end of their ice time—footage the camera man is very obviously pleased about, and then Kent is ushering Eli off the ice with a gatorade and a power bar, his hand, proprietary, on Eli’s lower back, his eyes still on Matts.

He thinks that will be the end of it, except then Jessica pulls him aside and tells him she loves the dynamic between him and Eli and can they continue their little impromptu figure-skating camp with some of the older kids as well in the following hour? Which is how Matts finds himself actually learning a few simple figure skating moves—awkward in his hockey skates. He’s one part muscle: helping hold waists and arms for balance while Eli directs movements, one part comedic entertainment: falling, sometimes intentionally, sometimes not, while he attempts the same tricks. They’re a good team, is the thing, and more often than not one of the camera men is gliding around their little group of ragtag teens and pre-teens taking low shots of moving feet before panning up to grinning faces.

At the end of the second hour, Matts realizes this is probably the longest he’s been on the ice without so much as touching a hockey stick in over a decade.

It’s also probably the most he’s laughed in the same amount of time.

After another round of hugs, the kids are bundled out of the rink by their various guardians and the team heads for the locker room. Matts realizes, as he’s stepping off the ice, however, that Eli is still over by one of the goals, tossing pucks into a bucket. He’s not doing it with much enthusiasm though, and, in fact, it looks like he’s purposefully taking as much time as possible, stopping to retie his laces despite the fact that he's about to take his skates off.

He could be waiting for Kent, who’s being interviewed on the opposite end of the rink, the only Ace left on the ice, but Matts knows that’s probably not the case. He thinks about what Rads had said that morning, and then the way Eli had flinched away from him and that. That sucks. Because Eli is actually pretty cool. And Matts may not be the dick that everyone seems to thinks he is, but he also, admittedly, isn’t very good at being nice either.

Fuck.

He doesn’t know how to do this shit.

“Hey, Eli!” he yells, arms braced on the glass at either side of the exit. “Come on, you’ll want to shower before Tater gets in there. He sings.”

Eli straightens, lobbing another puck toward the bucket by the goal, looking uncertain, and Matts’ jerks his head toward the locker room.

“Come on,” he repeats.

Eli skates off the ice to join him.

“I don’t need a shower. It’s fine. I was just—“ he gestures a little vaguely behind him, “going to help out here while I wait for Kent to wrap up and change.”

“Dude, you are literally covered in ice. Probably also germs because you’ve been covered in kids, too. And it’s like, flu season. You should definitely shower. Unless—”

He realizes maybe he’s coming on too strong with the nice-ness.

This shit is hard.

“—unless you don’t want to,” he finishes awkwardly.

“Okay,” Eli says slowly, making the word two syllables. “Well. A shower might be nice. I still need to grab Hawke, though,” he nods to where his dog has been patiently watching the morning’s proceedings in the stands.

“So grab her, let’s go.”

Eli considers him for a moment, the same weird pinch from earlier between his eyebrows.

He glances at Kent, still talking to the camera, and then inhales purposefully.

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah, alright. Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:  
> I think my language exam went well, I've turned in my pre-prospectus statement of intent, and the first draft of my feminism/gender theory list is complete. It has been a Very Busy week. I'm ready for a several-day-long nap, now. 
> 
> I just wanted to thank everyone for the continued awesome comments/abundance of love I'm getting both here and on Tumblr. I don't have time to answer all of them but please know I read them all they make me feel the warm fuzzies.
> 
> See you next week!


	29. Chapter 29

“So,” Eli says cheerfully when they get in the car. “What the fuck was that?”

“Shared hallucination?” Kent suggests.

“Seems plausible.”

Kent starts the engine and heads for the garage entrance, not sure what else to say.

“I mean,” Eli continues, “That _was_ the same guy who didn’t want me looking at his dick in the locker room a week ago, right?”

“Right.”

“And now he’s insistent that I _shower_ with him so I avoid contracting the flu? Did Tater threaten to kill him or something?”

“I don’t think so, but you know he has those mafia connections.”

Eli grins. “True.”

Kent drums his fingers on the steering wheel.“Did Matts—it seemed like you were getting along really well.”

“We did, is the weird thing. He was good at following instructions and actually learned some things, I think. And he was ridiculously sweet with the kids. Kind of a pushover, but like, genuinely concerned about them? I heard him asking Rushy if there were any Aces-funded figure skating programs for kids like there are hockey camps.”

“I don’t think there are.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if he donates to start one.”

Kent exhales, shaking his head. “I’m still leaning toward hallucination.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Well. I guess I’d rather an aggressively friendly Matts than an ignorant homophobe Matts.”

“Same.”

Eli orders pizza on the way home—they have an agreement now, Eli orders the food so Kent doesn’t have to talk on the phone, and Kent pays for it—and due to the ever-present Vegas traffic, the pizza arrives to Kent’s condo only shortly after they do. Kent is on the yoga mat stretching out his shoulder with a roller bar when concierge calls to get permission to send up the delivery guy. Eli answers the phone for him, says yes, and then Kent gets to watch as Eli moves comfortably around the kitchen, getting utensils from the cabinet and then emptying the dishwasher when it turns out there’s only one clean plate left. Watching Eli cook in his kitchen is one thing, but this—this is good too. Because Eli unerringly distributes measuring spoons and cutlery to their respective drawers and the fact that he knows where Kent’s potato-peeler goes feels like it means something.

Well. Kent didn’t actually own a potato-peeler before Eli and Eli is the one who designated its home as second-drawer-from-the-right between the oven and refrigerator—but the _point_ is that Kent likes it.

When the doorbell rings, Eli fishes Kent’s wallet out of his coat pocket to locate some cash and once the pizza is paid for and distributed, Eli brings both their plates to the living room and turns on the Avs/Panthers game. Kent moves to sit with him and they settle, inside elbows knocking companionably, Eli muttering about the high-sticking bastard on the Panthers that bloodied Kent’s lip and nearly took his helmet off six games previously and Kent just—has to take a moment.

Because this—them—feels natural. Habitual. Like they’ve been coexisting for years and will for years to come and it’s. God, that would be so _good_. And it’s not even a scary thought, really, that Eli might be it for him. It’s only scary that Eli might not feel the same way.

Eli catches him staring and tips his head a little, bemused.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Kent clears his throat and scoots a little closer. They can’t hold hands because they’re eating which is a damn shame. Maybe it’s because the novelty hasn’t worn off yet, but Kent really likes holding hands.

“So,” he says, “I like your hair today.”

Eli raises an eyebrow. “It’s the same as yesterday. Or, I tried to do it the same, anyway. I used the same product the barber did.”

Kent had noticed it on the bathroom counter that morning: a little blue bottle that smelled like heaven.

“Why’d you change it? Your hair, I mean.”

Eli shrugs. “Well, it was getting long, and if people are going to keep taking pictures of me that end up on the internet, I need to make sure I look good in them.”

“You always look good,” Kent says, and it’s not even a line.

“You’re sweet.”

“Also true.”

“Humble.”

“ _Very_ true.”

Kent’s phone rings before Eli has the chance to drag him more thoroughly and it’s his agent so—

“Hey Jamal,” he says, setting aside his plate.

“Kent,” Jamal says gravely. But then, Jamal says everything gravely. “I’ve reviewed all your contracts and spoken at length with Jessica Andrews, the head of Aces PR. I’m sorry it’s taken longer than expected, but some of the endorsement deals took a while to go over.”

“Oh…kay? Is there a problem with the endorsements, or?”

“Not explicitly, but Under Armor, Tag Heuer, and Diesel all have clauses about your eligibility as a representative. If they deem your independent behavior—for any reason—a contradiction to their values, or if they believe your behavior reflects badly upon their brand, your contract can be terminated.”

“And you think if I come out—“

Eli shifts, setting aside his own plate, to look at Kent.

“I _don’t_ think any of them would pull their endorsements,” Jamal says. “If anything, you coming out will increase the visibility and effectivity of the advertisements that feature you.I just want you to know that there is a possibility of repercussions if you become too polarizing a figure.”

Kent laughs a little bitterly. “Diesel signed me a month after my _second_ DWI, but it’s being gay I have to worry about. Fantastic.”

Eli goes very, very still beside him.

“Kent,” Jamal says, “I honestly don’t think it will be a problem, but if it becomes one, know that there will be dozens of other companies clamoring to sign you—ostensibly as a show of support, but more realistically to capitalize on what will be a significant jump in star status for you. You’re the king of the hockey world right now, but it’s still a relatively insular world. That won’t be the case when you come out.”

“Right. Okay. Well, it’s not like I need underwear-modeling gigs anyway. I have more money than I know what to do with as it is.”

Jamal sighs.

Jamal often sighs when talking to Kent.

“Alright,” Kent says. “So, you said you talked to Jessica? When is my meeting with management?”

“Tomorrow. 11 am. You don’t play the Flyers until 7:30 pm so that should leave plenty of time for your nap.”

“Okay, it is alright if I talk to coach first?”

“Yes, but Jessica has requested that you don’t tell anyone else on the team or staff until you’ve met with management and discussed a trajectory.”

“A trajectory,” Kent repeats.

“A timeline. We’re assuming you’ll want to come out in stages—first to the core of the team, then the whole team, then staff that works closely with you, then staff collectively, then other players in the league, and so on. And we’ll want to plan each step with contingency plans in place in case someone goes to the media prematurely.”

“Oh. Right. Okay.”

“Do you have any other questions?”

Kent has _so many_ questions, but most of them will probably be answered in 48 hours.

“No. I guess I’m good. Thanks.”

“Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow at 11.”

“Yeah. Bye.”

Kent exhales as he hangs up, flopping back against the cushions. “Well. I’m finally telling management. Now I need to tell coach first so he’s not blindsided.”

Eli doesn’t say anything and Kent pauses, mid-reach in retrieving his plate, to glance at him.

Eli looks…not good.

“What?” he says.

“You have DWIs?” he says.

“Oh. Uh. Yeah.” Kent scratches the back of his head. “One from the night of the draft. One from the night of my first hat trick as a rookie.”

“Did you hurt anyone?” Eli asks, barely audible.

“What? No. I wasn’t in accidents or anything. The first was just bad luck—I got pulled over for expired registration. The second was a speed trap because the game was against the Rangers on new years eve and cops were stopping everyone in the city in a car.”

“Okay.” Eli licks his lips, still so serious, so wide-eyed, that Kent feels unsettled.

“You don’t do that anymore, though, right?”

“I mean. I still get drunk sometimes—not nearly as often as I used to or like, to the same extent. Before I drank because I was unhappy and just kept drinking until I didn’t feel anything anymore. No I only drink when I’m celebrating.”

Eli’s eyebrows go a little pinched, but it’s still better than whatever his previous expression was. “You weren’t celebrating the night of the draft or your first hat trick?”

“Yeah, no. After the draft, Jack was in the hospital after nearly dying, refusing to take my calls, and I was the first-round pick wearing a jersey that should have been his. And the hat trick—I was in the locker room afterward, full of guys I’d only known for a month, holding my phone in my hand and realizing I didn’t have anyone to call to share it with. I didn’t—I wasn’t in a good place, then.”

Eli scoots a little closer, reaching for his hand, and Kent breathes a little easier because whatever is going on, if Eli is touching him he’s probably not mad.

“I’m sorry. That sounds really terrible.”

Kent shrugs. “Things are better, now. A _lot_ better, now.”

Eli takes a breath.

The kind of breath that means something.

“You don’t drive when you’ve been drinking anymore, though, right? I’ve only ever seen you take Ubers or had someone else, like Jeff, take you home but—“

“No. No, I haven’t. I won’t. I know it was irresponsible and stupid.”

“Okay.”

“Hey.” Kent squeezes Eli’s hand. “You’re kind of freaking me out, here. Are you alright?”

Eli considers him for a moment, eyes moving between Kent’s, and then lifts their joined hands, molding Kent’s palm to Eli’s jaw, forcing his fingers down to press against the line of scar tissue that cups the curve of Eli’s left ear.

“A drunk driver did this to me. Almost killed me. You can’t _ever_ do that shit again. Not even if you’ve only had a few drinks and you’re pretty sure you’re ok to drive. You have to promise you won’t. Please.”

And fuck.

_Fuck._

“I promise. I swear to God, I’m sorry, I didn’t—“

He reaches for Eli but pauses, unsure of his welcome, and when Eli folds easily into his arms, it feels a little like mercy.

“I’m _so_ sorry. It was stupid. I know it was stupid. But I haven’t since the second DWI. It’s been almost two years and I won’t—I _won’t_ —“

“Hey,” Eli says, more into his neck than to him. “I believe you, it’s okay. I just—I need to know that you to know how serious it is. Because I would probably be an olympic prospect right now if a drunk teenager hadn’t hit me head-on the night of the homecoming dance.”

And Kent thinks he gets what Eli is trying to say—that it was only luck he didn’t similarly destroy someone else’s life.

“Okay,” Kent says. “I understand. Never again.”

“Okay.”

They just sort of sit there holding each other until Hawke comes over with her leash in her mouth looking forlorn.

Eli laughs wetly into Kent’s collarbone. “I should take her for a walk. You want to come or do you need to call your coach?”

And Kent had completely forgotten about that in the past few minutes.

“Coach,” he says.

Eli straightens, framing Kent’s face with his hands, and presses a decisive kiss to his mouth.

“Good luck. Don’t let Kit eat my pizza.”

Kit, sitting on the coffee table and eyeing Eli’s abandoned plate on the arm of the couch, looks insulted by the insinuation.

“Will do.”

He watches Eli collect his boots and coat, Kent’s scarf, the keys, and then Kent waves at him like a moron when he slips out the door.

He pulls Kit into his arms and cuddles her to his chest, mostly against her will.

“I was such a disaster,” he tells her. “Still am, a little bit.”

She blinks solemnly at him in agreement.

“Don’t let me fuck this up,” he whispers. “Okay? ”

She butts her head against his chin.

“Okay, good talk. Should we call Coach, now?”

He decides they probably should.

He shifts Kit into his lap so he has a hand free and pulls up the contact information for one Coach Robert Sullivan—Sully to several of the guys, but a nick-name Kent has never been able to use, to his face or otherwise.

“Kent,” Coach says after the third ring. “Is everything alright?”

And he abruptly forgets the speech he’s spent the last few weeks practicing in his head.

God, he _hates_ making phone calls.

“Uh. Yes? I mean. _I’m_ great. I’m afraid I might be creating some problems for the organization soon, though. Which—that sounded more dire than I meant it to.”

“Okay,” Coach says guardedly.

“Um. I need to miss practice on January 13th.”

“Okay?”

“But that isn’t actually—“

“Hold on,” Coach says, “Jessica is calling.”

And then Kent is on call-waiting and debating banging his head against the coffee table except _not_ having a string of concussions is one of the things he actually has going for him right now, so.

“Why am I like this?” he asks Kit.

She has no idea.

The line crackles.

“Kent,” Coach says. “Why has Jessica just invited me to a mandatory meeting with management, you, and your agent, on Monday morning?”

“Yeah, that’s kind of why I was calling. I didn’t want you to be like, blindsided, or whatever.”

“What does this have to do with you missing practice on the 13th? Are you…unhappy, here?”

And _oh god_ , coach thinks he’s meeting with other teams or something.

“ _No._ No, that’s not it at all. I just. I need to miss practice so I can go to the Intercollegiate Figure Skating Championships. Which are January 11-13th.”

Coach doesn’t say anything for a moment.

“I don’t understand. Why do you need to go to the college—figure skating whatever?”

Kent takes a deep breath.

“Because,” he says, “My boyfriend is competing.”

“Your boyfriend,” Coach repeats. And then, after several seconds of silence, “So many things are making sense, now.”

“Yeah.” Kent stalls out, wishing he could see Coach’s face.

“It’s Elijah, right? The youtube, skating, kid?”

“Well. He’s 18, so, not really a kid. He’s only two years younger than me.”

“You’re a kid too, kid. _Jesus_. Alright, give me a second.”

Kent pets Kit with a purpose, that purpose being not having a panic attack.

“Okay,” Coach says. “Okay. So. I appreciate you telling me ahead of time, and I hope you didn’t wait this long because you thought I wouldn’t be supportive. I am. And had I known sooner I—well, that’s no excuse, but I could have supported you better, regardless, when you were a rookie. So I apologize for that.”

Kent swallows.

“That’s—thank you. And I wasn’t ready to tell anyone then. Not many people know, currently, either.”

“Alright. Are you wanting to come out?”

“Not now. But eventually. And I won’t—I’m not going obsess over the time I spend with Eli until then. So if someone figures it out and decides to go public with it—I figured we should be ready.”

“That’s smart. I’m assuming we’ll talk more at length about this on Monday, but do you need anything from me until then? You have any questions for me?”

“Uh. No? Knowing you’re supportive is really all I need. Oh, and um,” he bites his lip. “Is it okay if I miss practice so I can go to Eli’s competition in January?”

Coach sighs at him again. “Yes, Kent. I think that’s doable.”

“Okay.”

“You’re a good kid,” Coach says, which is about as effusive as he gets with overt statements of affection. “It seems like Eli is too. You let me know if you ever need anything, okay? If there’s ever anyone who gives you trouble. On or off the team.” And no, _that_ is probably the most effusive he gets.

“Thanks, Coach.”

They hang up and then, before Kent can even set the phone down, it’s ringing again.

He answers without looking.

“Hey, Coach. You forget something?”

“Oh. Um. I’m not—Hello?”

And that.

That is not Coach.

He’s pretty sure it’s—

Kent takes a breath.

“Jack?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, quiet and a little uncertain. “Yeah, it’s me. Hey, Kenny.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early chapter this week because I will be busy sun up to sun down (This week, man. How is it only Wednesday?!) and probably wouldn't have time to post it until post-8pm. So here it is now while I have the chance. 
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> A couple orders of business:
> 
> 1\. I've had a few requests through Tumblr for playlists/music that I listen to when I'm writing, and I may or may not have started compiling playlists of songs that I listen to specific to who is narrating--Eli or Kent. They'll probably be done by next week and I'll post them soon.
> 
> 2\. It didn't occur to me to ask until now--but if anyone has experience with Russian individuals speaking English as a second language, and you'd like to help make my Tater more accurate, please contact me on Tumblr! I've been using hockey interviews with Russian players (mostly Geno) as a guide, but I know I'm probably doing a terrible a job. Help me out?
> 
> 3\. Are you ready for Christmas? Because the boys are headed to Georgia next chapter! :D


	30. Chapter 30

Kent is more asleep than awake when Eli pours him into his first class window seat, tucks a blanket around him, and tells him to take a nap.

Kent doesn’t argue.

The last 24 hours have been exhausting, both physically and emotionally. Talking to Jack, short and awkward as the conversation was, had been good but…sort of harrowing? And then the next morning, talking to management—suddenly tripling the number of people who knew his biggest secret—having to listen to them map out the minutia of his personal life like he was some sort of _problem_ that they had to plan to fix, or maybe not fix but like, brace for.

Like a natural disaster.

Which, he feels like a natural disaster sometimes, so maybe that’s apt. And then they’d lost the last game of the year to shitty calling and, maybe, admittedly, some unwise choices on Kent’s part. Yes, he was sent to the box twice, but it wasn’t his fault that the refs _weren’t doing their jobs_. Like. If Roussel wasn’t going to get called for slashing him, what else was he supposed to do but retaliate by tripping him.

Hockey is stupid.

_And then_ he’d gotten boarded—read _destroyed_ —at the beginning of the third and was out for the rest of the period while they did concussion protocol and made anxious noises about his ribs even though Kent told them he was _fine_. And maybe he wasn’t fine, exactly, but he could have played. Honestly. At least he’d gotten one of the trainers to go retrieve Eli from the box so he didn’t have to watch his team lose on the shitty TV in the medical room _alone_. But they got home late, nearly midnight, and then Kent couldn’t sleep because, yes, his ribs were hurting, and by the time his painkillers kicked in it was nearly two. And then Eli was waking him up at five because they needed to be at the airport by six for their seven-thirty flight and while he was feeling arguably better than he had been the night before it was in the same way that getting hit by a Prius would be arguably better than being hit by a minivan.

He’s tired.

He’s hurting.

He’s grumpy.

He listens to his boyfriend and takes a nap.

When he wakes up, some indeterminable amount of time later, it’s to Eli sitting sideways, back against the armrest, feet in the seat, socked toes tucked under Kent’s thigh, a book propped on his bent knees. Because he’s small and bendy like that. He even looks comfortable.

“Hey,” Kent says, and his voice rasps.

He swallows and tries not to squint because he knows it’s not a good look on him.

“Hey,” Eli says, grinning. “How are you feeling?”

“Like a 239 pound defenseman tried to end my life last night.”

“239 is oddly specific.”

“I googled his stats while I was waiting on my x-rays.”

“Of course you did.”

Kent reaches for the gatorade conveniently waiting for him in the cupholder.

“What time is it?”

“I’m not really sure how to answer that because of the time difference, but we’re about twenty minutes away from Atlanta.”

So he has twenty minutes before he meets Eli’s best friend for the first time and, subsequently, Eli’s entire family, while sleep-deprived and on narcotics.

“Fantastic.”

“Hey. It’s okay. We’ll just tell everyone you’re hurt and you need to rest for most of the afternoon and you can go upstairs and lay down until dinner. It’s going to be fine.”

Kent makes a pathetic sound because he feels a little pathetic and he knows it will garner him sympathy.

Eli makes a face at him, shifting so his legs are tucked underneath him and he’s leaning into Kent’s space. He retrieves a second blanket, draping it over his own lap, and then Kent feels Eli’s fingers nudging his, hidden underneath free airline flannel.

And, well. That’s nice.

They hold hands for the rest of the flight.

Kent is able to get off the plane under his own power, and honestly he’s not sure how Eli managed to wrangle both him and Hawke down the airplane isle to board the plane to begin with, but obviously his boyfriend is talented. They take the elevator down to the baggage claim and then Kent finds himself abruptly abandoned when Eli drops his backpack and Hawke’s leash to run full-tilt toward a tiny, similarly exuberant, blonde, that Kent can only assume is Eric Bittle.

They embrace like they haven’t seen each other in years, and then Eli pulls Eric over to meet Kent and the kid really is just…incredibly small.

“You play _hockey_?” Kent says, in lieu of like, hello or some other standard greeting, because it’s what he’s thinking and apparently Vicodin takes away his filter.

Eric considers him with one eyebrow raised and a smirk that can only mean bad things.

“Yep. And probably better than you at the moment.”

Which, yeah. He can’t really argue that.

“That was some hit by Patchelli,” Eric continues. “I’m honestly a little surprised you’re standing upright on your own right now.”

“He wasn’t, this morning,” Eli says, the traitor. “And he’s on painkillers.”

“I can see that.”

“This was a terrible idea,” Kent says and they both laugh at him.

Hawke sidles up to Eric, vibrating with excitement, and he bites his lip, looking down at her.

“Hey, baby girl. Your vest is on right now, but I’ll give you so much love in the car, okay?”

Eli gets a reluctant Hawke to heel again and then Eric’s baggage carousel starts moving and they head off, arm in arm, to go retrieve his luggage.

Kent elects to sit down.

Twenty minutes and three suitcases later, they exit the terminal to humid air, sunshine, and a blonde woman standing beside a very old, very blue, pickup truck. She’s shading her eyes with one hand, practically on her tip-toes, scanning the swarm of people coming out of the door and then—

“Dicky! Eli! Oh, my boys—“

She hugs them with a fierceness that makes Kent’s throat uncomfortably tight, taking each of their faces between her palms to pull their foreheads down into kissing range—touching hair and pulling at clothing and despairing over how thin they are.

And then she’s moving toward Kent, smiling, giving him perhaps the gentlest hug he’s ever received while tutting about the violence of professional sports, so apparently she knows who he is.

“You’ll sit in the cab with me, of course, sweetheart, and let the boys have the bed. I’m afraid the suspension won’t be kind to you either way but at least you’ll have a seatbelt and a little padding up front. Come along.”

And…does she mean Eli and Eric are going to ride in the _back of the truck_?

Apparently she does.

Eventually they’re headed off down a bizarrely traffic-less road with the windows open and country music on the radio and Eric’s mom telling the story of the truck—a 1952 Chevy that she bought with all her savings as a grocery store clerk at nineteen—and how she picked up Eric’s father for their first date in it because _his_ vehicle was a motorcycle and she didn’t have a death wish, now did she? And Kent finds himself smiling, watching in the rearview mirror as Eli and Eric shout indistinctly at each other, grinning like idiots. Hawke is sitting mostly on top of Eric, head in the wind, tongue out, ecstatic.

“And well,” Eric’s mother is saying, “It’s always been my baby ever since. Even when my real baby” she nods to Eric in truck bed, “came along. Not that keeping it running hasn’t been a job and a half. But that’s another story.”

Kent focuses his attention back on her, one elbow leaned against the sill of the open window, fingers light against the old, cracked leather of the steering wheel. 

“Sounds like an interesting story,” he says, “if you want to share it?”

She does.

***

Eli’s house isn’t what he’s expecting.

In his head, he’d been picturing something out of a western movie. A long driveway with big trees. White siding. Wood beams. A wraparound porch.

The trees are definitely big, but the driveway is a combination of red dirt and gravel and the house looks far more victorian than southern with scalloped woodwork around the peaked attic windows and thin spiraling columns holding up the latticed arch of the roof over the porch. It’s big, but clearly aging, and the exact sort of place that some HGTV couple would salivate over buying and renovating while gushing over it’s “charm.”

It’s beautiful.

He’s about to say so, as Eric’s mom turns off the engine but then—

“Are those goats?” he asks. Because there’s a fence line just behind the house and several little bodies are hurtling toward it and they’re making noises like—

Okay. They’re definitely goats.

“Yes,” Eric’s mom says, and she might be laughing at him. “The Rodriguez family usually has two to four dozen at a time. They’re a nice little source of added income—I think a good portion of Eli’s skating lessons over the years were paid for with money from goat or sheep sales.”

The first few goats reach the fence line, screaming—Kent honestly can’t describe it as anything _but_ screaming—and Hawke launches herself out of the back of the truck to greet them, shoving her nose through the openings in the fence, low to the ground and wagging so hard Kent is slightly afraid she might do herself an injury.

“Johnny!” Eli yells, jumping down to follow Hawke. “Hey baby boy! Michelle! Yuna! Dorthy! Ashley! Oh, my girls.”

Eli follows Hawke to the fence and some of the goats stand on their back legs, begging for pets and Eli, in his floral vans and skinny jeans bends to kiss their noses and coo over them.

Kent may need to adjust his world view a little bit.

“Why do they have people names?” Kent asks, more to himself than anyone else. “Goats shouldn’t have people names.”

Eric opens the passenger door and offers Kent a hand.

“They’re all named after former or current figure skaters. Like Johnny Weir, Michelle Kwan, Yuna Kim, etc.”

“Oh. Oh my god. Please tell me there’s a goat named Jeff Troy.”

“There used to be,” Eric says, “but he was kind of a dick once he hit puberty so they sold him.”

“That,” Kent says fervently, “is the best christmas present you could have given me.”

“Uh huh. You gunna get out of the cab or are you planning to come home with Mama and me?” Eric asks.

Kent takes Eric’s hand, cursing under his breath on the way to the ground, and then stands there uselessly as Eric gets his suitcase out of the truck bed and carries it toward the house.

“Elijah!” Eric yells. “Stop kissing crusty farm animal noses and come see to your guest.”

Eli glances back at them guiltily, then jogs over to retrieve his own bags, calling Hawke to follow him.

He’s extending his arm, ostensibly to help Kent up the porch steps, when the front door opens and a tall woman in a bright, floral-patterned dress steps around the screen door and into the light.

“Elijah!”

“Abuela!”

There’s a round of hugs between Eli’s grandmother, Eli, Eric, and Eric’s mom, and then Eli’s grandmother in front of Kent, holding his face between her hands and staring at him like she can see directly into his soul. The fact that she might actually be a little taller than him only emphasizes his anxiety.

“Uh. Hi,” he says. “I’m Kent.”

She’s really pretty, not despite the wrinkles on her face but maybe because of them—she clearly does a lot of smiling.

“Oh, Eli,” she says, turning Kent’s face to the side, then back to meet her eyes again, “¿Por qué todos mis nietos deben enamorarse de gringos? Ay, al menos él es lindo.”

Eli makes an embarrassed noise, with a strangled, “ _Okay_ , why don’t we go inside, now?” that leaves Kent really, really, wishing he knew Spanish.

“It is good to meet you, Kent,” she says, patting his cheek. “You call me Abuela, or Aba, like the little ones, okay? Come inside. You look hungry.”

She releases him, moving to hold open the door, and Eli wraps himself around Kent’s right arm, pressing a laugh briefly into his shoulder, before pulling him up the steps.

The Bittles leave their bags in the entryway, then call their goodbyes with promises to see them soon, and head back for the truck.

“Abuela,” Eli says, as they progress down a narrow, but high-ceilinged hall, “Kent was hurt in his hockey game last night and we didn’t get much sleep. So after we eat something we’re going to go up and rest for a while. Do you know if Mama has anything big planned tonight?”

“Family dinner,” she says, leading them into a kitchen positively exploding with floral wallpaper.

“How much of the family?” he asks guardedly.

She waves a dismissive hand. “Little family, no aunts or cousins.”

“Okay, good. You know if Papa will be late tonight?”

She makes a noise that universally means, “who knows” and starts pulling corning ware bowls out of the refrigerator, frowning at Kent as he sits, slowly, at the well-worn table tucked in the half-moon recess off the kitchen. The windows look into a side yard that is bursting with bird feeders and, by consequence, birds. Kent can’t remember a time he’s seen that many birds in one place before—or such a variety.

“Where are you hurt?” Abuela asks, and it takes Kent a moment to realize she’s talking to him.

“Oh, uh. It’s nothing, really. I just have some bruised ribs.”

“The whole left side of your back is purple,” Eli mutters, spooning things onto two plates, “That’s not nothing. Do you want butter on your sweet potato?”

“Yes, please.”

Abuela wipes her hands on a dish rag and moves across the room to a bulky leather purse. She returns a moment later to press a small canister of something into Kent’s hand.

“Here. Vapor Rub. It will help.

“Oh jeez,” Eli says, moving to sit beside Kent with their plates. “Not with the vapor rub again. I think science has proven that Vicks cannot, in fact, cure everything.”

“Actually,” Kent says, “that probably _would_ help. The trainers have like, a fancier version, but it helps with inflammation, increased blood flow, and helps bruises fade faster. Especially if you add—“

“Salt,” Abuela agrees, setting down a canister of Morton on the table. She taps her temple. “I know this.”

“Thank you.”

Eli groans something about encouraging her madness, offering Kent a fork, and Kent accepts it with a grin.

Lunch is leisurely, comprised mostly of Abuela sneaking Hawke food, Eli answering questions about how his first semester is going, and Kent being embarrassingly entranced by the birds outside. He wonders if it’s the medication or the fact that he doesn’t think he’s seen a wild bird—much less dozens of them—this close before.

When they’re finished, Eli takes him up a very old, wide, staircase, with an ornate banister, and into, Kent is delighted to find, Eli’s childhood bedroom. The wallpaper here is a deep jewel-toned green that makes him even sleepier than he was before, and Eli helps him undress down to boxers and a t-shirt while Kent gets distracted trying to read the titles of books on the shelves above the desk, and looking at the little lego creations on the top of the long chest of drawers opposite the bed.

“I told Jack I’d call him back today,” Kent says absently, eyes caught again by the birds outside. There’s several blue ones that remind him of Jack’s eyes.

“You’re in no shape to have that conversation right now,” Eli says, hiking up Kent’s shirt to smear some Vapor Rub on his ribs. “I’m sure Jack saw the game last night and knows you’re high as a kite right now. But if you want I can text him and let him know you’ll need another day or two?”

“Yeah,” Kent agrees. He pats his ass, forgetting for a moment that he’s not wearing pants. “Oh. My phone is in my—“

“Right butt jeans pocket,” Eli says. “I know. I’ll get it in a minute. Hold still, apparently I need to rub salt on you now.”

Eventually, Eli gets him tucked under the satisfyingly crinkly grey duvet, and Kent is pretty sure he says something about wanting Eli to stay but he can’t be certain because he falls asleep almost immediately.

He wakes up once, briefly, to the sound of a car coming down the gravel driveway, but he’s warm and everything smells pleasantly of menthol and Eli is snug up behind him, breathing slow and sweet against the back of his neck, and he drifts right back off again.

The second time he wakes it’s to Eli leaving the bed, followed quickly by Hawke, who shakes, rattling her collar tags. Kent grumbles something about betrayal as he watches Eli get dressed—silhouetted against the window.

“My dad will be home in half an hour or so. I need to go down and say hi to Mama and Bells and help them start the food. You stay here, I’ll come get you a little before dinner, okay?”

“No,” he says, starting to sit up, “I can get up now, I don’t want to be rude.”

“What will be rude is if you stare out the window at the birds all of dinner because you have to take another pain pill. And, I mean, if you really need to, that’s fine, but the doctor said if you didn’t push yourself today you could switch to Advil tonight. Which is much kinder to your poor addled brain.”

Eli finishes tucking his shirt into his jeans and then ducks to kiss Kent’s forehead.

Kent likes it when he does that.

“So. You rest. And I’ll come get you in another two hours, okay?”

“Okay,” he agrees. “The doctor also said I have to walk around, though, to make sure I don’t get fluid in my lungs. So I can’t just stay in bed _all_ day.”

“I’ll take you out around the back forty after dinner, if you’re feeling up to it. But let’s keep the exertion for after you’ve gotten grilled by my family, okay? You’re my first boyfriend. They’re probably going to be ridiculous. You need to be on your game.”

And that’s more than a little intimidating.

“What’s a back forty?” he asks blearily and Eli grins like he’s being cute. He makes a note to google it before dinner.

“Kiss my forehead again,” he demands, closing his eyes.

Eli laughs at him, but acquiesces.

Two hours and several Advil later, Eli helps Kent put on jeans and a white button down, Kent’s favorite “I’m an adult” brown leather belt and matching shoes, and then holds his hand as they descend the stairs. He continues holding it while he introduces Kent to his Mama (Alicia)—a small lady, even smaller than Eli, with the same wide smile as Abuela and long dreadlocks twisted up into a bun that gives her several more inches in height—his Papa (Joseph)—a lean man, not quite as tall as Kent with horn-rimmed glasses, greying light brown hair, and a thin tidy mustache—and his sister Isabella—who looks shockingly similar to Eli only younger and with longer, braided hair. She’s wearing a basketball jersey and the kind of superior expression only middle-schoolers can truly achieve.

He gets a hug from Alicia, a handshake from Joseph, and a disdainful look from Isabella before they all sit down at the table and then, naturally, the first question Eli’s mother asks is: “So, how did you two meet?”

Kent glances sideways at Eli, uncertain how to respond, because they’d planned to talk on the plane about how they were going to handle the whole _Kent’s career_ situation and then, for some reason, neither of them had remembered that conversation still needed to happen after Kent slept through the majority of the trip.

“Uh,” he says eloquently.

Eli raises a questioning eyebrow and Kent nods, not exactly sure what he’s agreeing to, but he trusts Eli.

“So,” Eli says, pressing his palms together. “That’s actually something that we need to talk to y'all about. And. We’ll probably need to tell Tia Rose and the others at Christmas too.”

Everyone stops eating except for Isabella.

“Okay,” Alicia says slowly. “Mijo, is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine, Mama. It’s—Kent isn’t just a hockey player. He’s, uh. He’s the captain of the Aces.”

“Oh. Captain,” Alicia says, still looking confused. “That is…very impressive.”

“No, I mean. He’s the captain of the _Las Vegas_ Aces. Like. The NHL team.”

“Shut up,” Isabella says.

“Bella,” Alicia chides.

“NHL,” Joseph repeats. “NHL like National Hockey League? How _old_ are you?”

“Oh. Uh. Twenty?” Kent says.

“No way you’re dating a professional athlete, that’s not fair,” Isabella whines.

“What?” Eli says.“What do you mean it’s not fair, that doesn’t even—“

“Use the Google,” Abuela says to Isabella, handing over her phone—“type ‘Kent Las Vegas Aces.’”

“That might not be a good idea,” Kent whispers to Eli, harried.

“Twenty,” Eli’s dad says thoughtfully. “Well. That’s not so bad. A _captain_ at twenty, though. That’s a lot of responsibility. You must—“

“Oh my god,” Isabella shrieks. “He _is,_ look,” and then she’s passing around Abuela’s phone and yes, that’s Kent’s NHL headshot, which isn’t exactly flattering but it could be worse—like his draft photo.

Alicia, now holding the phone, looks up at Kent.

“You are a professional hockey player?”

“Yes. Ma’am.”

“Wait,” Isabella says, “How are you gay? Professional hockey players can’t be gay.”

_“Bella,_ ” everyone at the table except for Kent shouts.

“ _Sorry._ I’m just saying, that’s like. A big deal. Do we have to keep this a secret? Is that what this is about?”

“Yeah,” Eli says. “Sort of. Kent isn’t out yet. Nobody can know he’s here or that we’re together. So everyone needs to be careful about what they post on Facebook and Instagram and stuff.”

Alicia sighs, passing the phone back to Isabella. “I will definitely need to speak with Charlotte and Rose before Christmas, then.”

“Oh my _god,_ ” Isabella says faintly.

“ _What?_ ” Eli snaps.

“Kent Parson’s estimated net worth,” she reads, phone still in hand, “is _3.5 million dollars_ ,” she turns her attention to Kent. “You’re a _millionaire_?”

“Uh. I guess? I mean. Yeah. I am.”

“And you’re dating _Eli_?” she says, disbelief coloring her tone.

“ _Yes_ ,” Kent says, much more assertively, putting down his fork so he can reach for Eli’s free hand. “And I’m lucky that he’s willing to put up with me. I can’t—I’m not an easy person to date. And we didn’t _start_ dating for a long time, even though we both really liked each other because I wasn’t willing to ask him to be a secret. Because that’s not right, and I wish I could tell _everyone_ that we’re together but—“

Okay, he’s getting a little off-track, here.

“But the fact that he’s willing to be with me anyway is um. The best thing. And I’m really happy. And I don’t deserve him. So. _Yes._ I’m dating Eli.”

Eli is grinning down at his plate, a little embarrassed, but mostly pleased, Kent thinks.

Abuela pats Kent approvingly on the shoulder.

“Good boy,” she says, sotto voice.

Alicia clears her throat. “Well,” she says. “An NHL player. That is…certainly something. I still want to hear how you met, though.”

And Kent winces a little.

“It’s not the best story,” he says.

“Oh, it really is,” Eli corrects, squeezing Kent’s hand. “So. It was in August, the day after move in, and I get to the rink for the first ever morning practice….”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spanish:
> 
> “Oh, Eli,” she says, turning Kent’s face to the side, then back to meet her eyes again, “Why must all my grandchildren fall in love with whiteboys? Oh well. At least he's pretty.”
> 
> Captain's Log: 
> 
>  
> 
> Early chapter because I'm going to be hella busy tomorrow. Also, happy valentines day to those of you who are about that.
> 
>  
> 
> My students' first paper (on Fraction's Hawkeye and disability representation in comics) was due on Monday, and they did SUCH a good job. B+ class average. Lots of good ideas. I'm very proud. I have to read and annotate the entire Twilight series over the next 4 days for my YA lit class which should be interesting. MOST exciting though: my bff (if you're a long-time follower, the one who had leukemia) is coming to stay with me for the weekend! He arrives tomorrow afternoon and we're going to see Black Panther and then he's going to sit in on my class Friday morning and spend the weekend with me and our other mutual friends in the city. I haven't seen him since Christmas so I am super pumped.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FYI the Spanish in this chapter is translated in hover text and then in block form at the bottom in the chapter notes for those on mobile.

The following morning, Eli wakes up to the familiar, muted, sound of bird song and the shadowy figure of Kent, barefooted and rumpled, sitting on the floor in front of the window.

Hawke is sprawled across his lap and he’s petting her absently, a mug of coffee in his other hand.

Eli stretches, sitting up, and leans over to check his phone.

“Kent,” he groans. “We’re on vacation. Why are you awake at 7:30 am? Especially since it’s 4:30 am in Vegas right now.”

“Sorry,” he says. “I think I threw off my internal clock sleeping so much yesterday. You can stay in bed, I’m good watching the birds.”

“You and the stupid birds,” Eli says, “I’d rather you come cuddle me.”

Kent doesn’t need to be told twice.

“How are you feeling?” Eli asks after Kent has slipped back under the duvet and given him a coffee-flavored kiss.

“Good. Surprisingly good, actually. I think the Vapor Rub healed me.”

“It did not.”

“It did.”

They don’t go back to sleep, but they do linger in bed for another half hour before putting on jeans and making their way downstairs.

The rest of the day is similarly leisurely.

They spend the morning wandering around the property, throwing occasional sticks for Hawke and introducing Kent to all of the goats, sheep, chickens, and two very grumpy, but very cute, curly-haired miniature donkeys. Eric comes over with a tin of cookies from his mother a little after eleven and stays for lunch, and then he and Eli make a joint video for their youtube channel while Kent takes a nap upstairs. Well. He doesn’t actually nap, Eli thinks, or at least he isn’t napping when Eli goes to collect him a little over an hour later. He’s shirtless, doing stretches, head tipped to watch the birds outside. Initially, Eli had thought the bird thing was due to the narcotics, but now he’s starting to think that Kent just…likes birds. Which is sort of overwhelmingly endearing in a way that he isn’t sure how to process.

“There’s a sweaty half-naked man on my bedroom floor,” Eli muses, leaning in the doorway. “My sixteen year old self would be screaming if he could see me now. Or, I guess, if he could see _you_ , now.”

“You should come kiss me for his sake,” Kent says seriously and, well, who is Eli to argue.

“I thought you were supposed to be taking it easy,” Eli says, breathless, several minutes and a little bit of light grinding later. He runs a finger down Kent’s sweaty neck. “This doesn’t look like you’re taking it easy.”

“I am,” Kent says innocently, shifting his hips in a decidedly not innocent way. “It’s not my fault that Georgia doesn’t believe in seasons. Seriously, how is it so hot here? It’s _December_.”

“Honey, its 75 degrees. Thats not hot. You should know what hot is, you live in Las Vegas.”

“Where it is currently a reasonable 45 degrees,” Kent argues. “Because it’s _December._ Also. Honey?”

“Yes?”

“No, I mean. Since when do you call me honey?”

And oh. That’s embarrassing.

“Sorry. I guess I sort of fall back into the habit when I’m around Eric since he's _all about_ the endearments. I’ll bet you five dollars he ‘sweet-pea’s you at some point while you’re here. I’ll try to stop, though.”

“No,” Kent says, ears pink. “It’s fine. I just. I’ve never, uh.” He pauses, looking thoughtful. “Can I call you things too?”

Eli doesn’t laugh because it’s clear Kent is self-conscious but powering through anyway.

“Things like what?” Eli says, resisting the urge to tack on a “sweetheart.”

Kent opens his mouth.

Then he closes it.

His ears go a little bit more red.

“Can I think about it?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

And well, Eli has never been good at denying himself.

From the way Kent is looking up at him, it’s not a problem.

Eli clears his throat.

“So. Abuela wants to go last-minute grocery shopping and I said you wouldn’t mind driving since Papa is out fixing the fence and Mama is at the church.”

“Sure thing, do I have time to shower?”

“Yeah, no hurry.”

Neither one of them move for a moment and then they can hear Hawke’s toe nails clicking up the staircase and Eli reluctantly stands, helping Kent to his feet.

And in the bright afternoon light, damp, and golden, and tousled, and _looking at him_ , Kent is really just.

Something.

Kent shifts, glancing toward the open bathroom door, then back at Eli. He tucks one thumb under the elastic of his shorts and tugs, just enough to really emphasize the cut V of his hips.

“Do you. Uh. Want to join me?” he asks, nodding toward the tub.

And _jesus._

Eli’s sixteen year old self would really be having a heart attack right now.

“ _Yes_ ,” he says, and then immediately has to backtrack because, “but I can’t. We can’t. Not when—not now. Bells is right next door and her room shares a door with the bathroom and I know she’s probably listening to music on her headphones but. If she isn’t—“

“Hey, no,” Kent kisses him to make him stop talking, which usually he would take exception to but doesn’t actually mind in this situation. “I understand. No pressure. I was just asking. Maybe when we’re back in Vegas? And we’re the only ones at my place?”

“You do have a very serviceable bench in that shower,” Eli agrees.

“And I think you said something about wanting to try out my bathtub, too.”

“I did. I did say that.”

Kent makes a little bereft noise, and ducks to bite at Eli’s neck for a minute before taking a very intentional step back, tongue pressed, barely visible, to the swollen curve of his bottom lip.

“ _Okay._ ” Kent says, like he’s trying to convince himself. “Okay. I’m going to shower now. Plan to leave in twenty?”

“Yeah,” Eli agrees. “I’ll uh. I’ll go let Abuela know.”

***

Someone could probably make a very popular reality TV show about grandmothers and altruistic, overly eager, NHL players shopping at Walmart together.

Eli can’t decide if he’s charmed or annoyed.

Shopping with either of them alone is bad enough, because if he so much as stops to read the label of a new kind of yogurt, it ends up in the cart. With _both_ of them, however, this turns into a friendly, and then not-so-friendly, competition that results in Kent getting his own personal basket when Abuela refuses to let him pay for anything in the cart she’s pushing, and Kent filling said basket with things he knows Eli likes, and then Abuela sneaking looks into his basket and adding the same products to her cart and honestly, they’re only going to be in town for another forty-eight hours there’s no way Eli is going to drink _two_ liters of sparkling Italian grapefruit soda in that time span.

“Aba,” he says finally, exasperated, when he catches her trying to subtly fish out the bag of kale chips from Kent’s basket while Kent is distracted by a sample-pusher.

There had only been one bag left on the shelf, so she couldn’t get a second bag of her own.

“What?” she says innocently.

“Para, porfa. Sé que es ridículo, pero no estás ayudando.”

“Es mi trabajo mimarte. Soy tu abuela. Él puede mimarte el resto del año.”

Kent looks between them, eyebrows raised.

“Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. Did you want to get toothpaste?”

Somehow they’d both managed to forget theirs and Eli’s parents only stock the house with the blue generic kind. He’s become spoiled using the fancy Toms shit that Kent has and it seems silly to buy a whole new tube but—

“Oh, yeah. One sec.”

“Seriously,” Eli says, once Kent is out of ear shot. “Sé que no parece, pero en realidad está bastante ansioso por este viaje. Si lo dejo enfocarse en cuidarme, le ayudará a no obsesionarse con otras cosas"

“Ah. Me preguntaba por qué no estabas haciendo un escándalo,” she says. “Bien. Voy a devolver las cosas.”

“Gracias.”

By the time Kent returns with the toothpaste, Abuela’s cart is short a dozen items and they’re talking about the number of people they’ll need to feed for christmas brunch(a lot) and whether they should pick up some eggs just in case the chickens have a production rut (probably).

He expects Abuela to switch from Spanish to English once Kent returns—the woman is nothing but considerate—except she doesn’t.

"¿Por qué sigues hablándome en español?” he asksseveral minutes later after she’s just enquired about his opinion on mushrooms in Spanish. "Kent no te puede entender.”

“Ya sé. Estoy tratando de ayudarte.”

“¿Qué quieres decir?”

“Le gusta cuando hablas español. Mira su cara ahora mismo.”

And.

Okay. Yes. that is definitely Kent’s badly-concealed turned on face.

That is…interesting.

“¿No lo sabías?”

“No.”

"De nada,” she says with a wink.

***

Dinner is a subdued affair, mostly because they’re doing prep work for the next day, but they follow dinner with eggnog and Dominoes which Kent is surprisingly _very_ good at, despite having never played before.

Bella only asks a couple of invasive questions and his mother only shares a couple of embarrassing baby photos and his father only makes a couple of vaguely threatening comments.

It’s a good night.

Kent _does r_ eceive a few suspiciously large Amazon packages that he secrets away with Abuela to wrap in the laundry room and deliver under the tree that neither one of them will so much as acknowledge when Eli asks, even though he was _right there_ when they were delivered, but he figures his boyfriend being overly generous isn’t really something that warrants a fight on Christmas eve, so he lets it go.

And then it’s past 9 pm and Hawke is yawning where she’s half sprawled over his lap and Eli is tucked under Kent’s arm, casually leaning into him while Kent tells a story about meeting Christian Renaldo at an Under Armor shoot—Eli’s father listening, enraptured, while Bella pretends she’s not equally impressed—and it’s just.

It’s perfect.

There’s Christmas carols on and Abuela is crocheting something and.

He used to dream about this.

About a “someday” in the vague and distant future. Where someone would love him as much as he loved them and—

And that’s.

Well.

That’s definitely what’s happening here.

He looks up at Kent and Kent is looking down at him with a half-smile, eyes wide and grey and fond and he’s looking at Eli the same way he’s _been_ looking at Eli for months, since maybe even before the awkward lurch of a kiss on the living room floor.

And what’s worse, Eli knows he’s looking at Kent—has been looking at Kent— in the same way.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise, really.

He recognizes that, distantly, as he stands.

“You okay?” Kent asks.

“Yeah, I just. I need to—I’m really tired. I’m gunna go take a shower.”

He knows he’s being rude but he somehow neglected to realize until just now that he’s in love with Kent Parson.

“I’m in love with Kent Parson,” he says to himself in the mirror upstairs a minute later.

And then he says it again, a little breathless, because it’s true.

“ _I’m in love with Kent Parson_.”

“Uh. Should I come back later?” Kent asks from the bathroom doorway and Eli turns to look at Hawke, betrayed, because clearly it was her responsibility to let him know if anyone else entered the bedroom.

She is unrepentant.

“So,” Eli says, because its not like he has any other options. “I love you. Apparently.”

“Okay?”

“I’m— _okay_? What do you mean _okay_. This is not okay. This is the _opposite_ of okay.”

And that’s Kent’s hurt face, which—

“No,” Eli says, reaching for him. “I mean. That came out wrong. Sorry. I just. _How are you being so calm about this_? This is a big deal.”

“Because it’s not new for me.” Kent says, “I’ve been in love with you for—a while.”

“A while.”

“Yeah.”

“Alright,” Eli says. Taking an intentional breath. “So. We’re doing this, then.”

We’re doing what?”

“This—we’re in love. With each other. That’s a thing that’s happening.”

“Yes,” Kent agrees.

“Sorry. This just makes things a lot more real, I guess.”

“Do you…not want it to be?”

“No. No, I do. Oh my god, I do. But I thought you’d get tired of me. Or change your mind. And I’d be broken hearted and it would be shitty but. But you’ve gone and talked to your agent and management and. Are you _really_ going to come out?”

Kent shrugs. “Yeah. I’m still not ready right now. But we’re planning for me to tell a few of the core guys after break and then the rest of the team at the end of the season—preferably after winning the Stanley Cup—that way they have the summer to come to terms with it. And then I can start telling other people in the organization next season.”

“That’s. Soon.”

“I know. But it’s—I don’t know how to explain it right but. I was afraid, before. Of what would happen if it got out that I was gay. And I was so preoccupied with that fear that it didn’t even leave room for me to think about the _good_ things that might come with being out. And then I met you and—“

He takes a breath.

The kind of breath that means he’s trying to formulate a sentence he’s never said out loud before.

“I was _so_ lonely before you. Except I didn’t even realize I was lonely. I just thought that was the way I was supposed to be. “

Eli’s throat is abruptly tight.

“Kent.”

“So. My point is. There’s no going back for me, now.”

“Okay,” Eli says, and then sort of throws himself at Kent and Kent catches him because of course he does.

“Hey,” Eli says a minute later, palms pressed to the sides of Kent’s neck

“Hey,” Kent agrees, lacing his fingers at the small of Eli’s back.

“Te amo,” Eli says.

And Kent’s face lights up like the fucking sun.

It’s not fair.

It’s so easy—too easy— for Eli to make Kent smile like that and Eli can’t decide if he loves or hates having that ability. He doesn’t know if it’s one he should be trusted with.

“Yeah?” Kent asks, soft and so happy.

“Yeah,” Eli says, and he means it.

He _means_ it.

Means it in a big, terrifying, unwieldy way.

Kent grins, ducking to kiss him and Eli closes his eyes and tries not to be scared.

“Good,” Kent says. “I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spanish:
> 
> “What?” she says innocently.  
> “Stop, please, I know he's ridiculous but you're not helping.”  
> “It's my job to spoil you. I'm your grandmother. He can spoil you the rest of the year."
> 
> “Seriously,” Eli says, once Kent is out of ear shot. "I know it doesn't seem like it, but Kent is actually pretty nervous about this trip. If I let him focus on taking care of me, it will help him not obsess about other things."  
> “Ah. I was wondering why you weren't making a fuss,” she says. “Fine. I will put things back.”  
> “Thank you.”
> 
> He expects Abuela to switch from Spanish to English once Kent returns—the woman is nothing but considerate—except she doesn’t.  
> "Why are you still speaking Spanish to me?” he asks several minutes later after she’s just enquired about his opinion on mushrooms in Spanish. "Kent can't understand you.”  
> “I know. I'm trying to help you.”  
> "What do you mean?"  
> "He likes it (thinks its hot) when you speak in Spanish."  
> And.   
> Okay. Yes. that is definitely Kent’s badly-concealed turned on face.  
> That is…interesting.  
> “You didn't know?”  
> “No.”  
> “You're welcome,” she says with a wink.
> 
>  
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> My bff's visit was excellent. I'm still screaming about Black Panther, and even though I have not seen the sun in over a week (constant fog+sleet=wft Texas??) I am feeling pretty good about life in general. I hope you are too! See you next week and, as always, thanks for all the comments both here and on Tumblr. Also, shout out to Sabrina (https://aaronjminyard.tumblr.com) for looking over my Spanish and making sure I didn't embarrass myself! You the real mvp.


	32. Chapter 32

Kent wakes Eli up at 7am on Christmas morning.

“Hey,” Kent whispers urgently into Eli’s temple. “I want to call Jack.”

“You _what_?” Eli growls somewhere in the vicinity of his sternum.

And, okay. Admittedly that might not have been the best way to go about waking him up.

“Sorry. Sorry, I know it’s early but I was laying here thinking. And I realized that I’m ready. I’m not afraid to talk to him anymore and I know he’ll be awake but probably not downstairs with his parents yet because his mom likes to sleep in so—I’m sorry. I don’t have to right now. I can wait until tonight.”

“No, no this is good,” Eli says, shifting so he can blink up at him, bleary and shadowed in the early-morning light and his hair an absolute disaster.

There are pillow creases on his cheek and his lips are chapped and his morning breath is rank.

Kent loves him.

“I’m good,” Eli says, pressing his palms to his eyes. “I’m glad you’re—yeah. Do I need to really be awake for this or—“

Kent loves him so much.

“No. This is fine. Just. Be here? While I talk to him?”

“Done,” Eli says, yawning, throwing an arm around Kent’s waist.“Go for it.”

“Okay.”

And Kent calls Jack.

“Kenny,” Jack says after the third ring, and Kent has to close his eyes for a moment at the familiarity of it.

“Hey,” he says. “Merry Christmas.”

“Yeah, merry Christmas. What are you doing up this early? Isn’t it like, 4am in Vegas?”

“I’m not in Vegas,” he says.

“You’re not.”

“I’m not.”

Jack huffs out a laugh.“You’re in Georgia, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“And you’re calling me on Christmas morning instead of cuddling with your—uh. Eli?”

Eli, who can obviously hear Jack, snickers into Kent’s neck.

Kent winces.

“Boyfriend. Eli’s my boyfriend. We’re together.”

“I mean. I kind of figured. He said you weren’t, though, when he was here.”

“It’s new. Sort of. We finally got together after Thanksgiving.”

“Good,” Jack says after a moment’s pause, and it sounds like he means it. “I’m glad.”

“Me too,” Kent says.

It earns him a little squeeze from Eli.

“Okay,” Jack says. “Well. I’ll ask again, why are you on the phone with me instead of cuddling your boyfriend?”

Kent bites his lip.

Jacks sighs at his silence. “Kenny.”

“I’m. Uh. Those two things aren’t exactly mutually exclusive?”

“So. You’re calling your ex boyfriend _while_ cuddling your current boyfriend? On Christmas morning.”

Eli turns his face into Kent’s collar bone and Kent can feel him smiling.

“Yes.”

“I feel like I should be apologizing to Eli right now but I also feel like he probably knew what he was getting into. Are you alright?”

“Yeah. I’m good. Really good. And I’m—there are some things we should talk about.”

“Okay?” Jack sounds guarded. Which is fair.

“Um. One thing is personal and one is professional so, which would you—“

“Oh. Uh. Personal first,” Jack says. “I guess.”

Kent takes a breath and Eli’s head shifts on his chest.

He smoothes one hand down Eli’s side, pressing his fingers to the divots between his ribs.

“I’m sorry. For everything. And I miss you,” Kent says slowly. “I miss being friends with you. And I understand if you don’t want to, or if you can’t be friends with me again. After everything. But if you do—“

“I do,” Jack says. “I’ve wanted—I’m sorry too. I’m _so_ sorry. I shouldn’t have cut you out of my life like that.”

“I understand why you had to. I shouldn’t have treated you the way I did, there at the end. I was. Uh. Scared. And insecure. And I sort of pushed all of my bad feelings onto you and—“

“We both fucked up,” Jack says, quiet, and more than a little resigned.

“Yeah.”

“But it also sounds like we’re both trying to handle our problems like adults now, so that’s good, eh?”

“Eh?” Kent mimics, like he has a thousand times before.

“Yeah, I’m not so sure about that ‘being friends again’ thing after all,” Jack says.

Kent laughs and his chest feels a little looser.

“So I was thinking we could start talking again?” he suggests.

“We could text, maybe. To start with.” Jack says.

Kent makes a face.

“Since when do _you_ text?”

“Well. The team has a group chat. And Bittle is always texting me. He even taught me how to use emoticons.”

He sounds very proud of this fact.

Kent glances down at Eli and they share a knowing look.

“Bittle, huh?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, completely missing the leading inflection in Kent’s tone. “Eric Bittle? He’s Eli’s friend? The one Eli visited here at Thanksgiving. He’s from Georgia too. He’s small but fast, soft hands, and he’s really improving with his checking issues. He’s going to be a real asset to the team next year.”

“Yes. I know who Eric is,” Kent says dryly and from the strangled sounds Eli is making he’s either trying not to sob or badly stifling hysterical laughter.

“So,” Jack continues, “You said there was something personal and something professional. Is everything okay with the Aces? I mean, you’re playing really well—your whole line is. You really have a shot at the cup this year.”

“Yeah, no. Everything is great with the Aces. That’s um, actually part of—“

He takes another breath. Lets it out. Breathes again.

“I’m thinking about coming out. I’ve already talked to management and PR and we have a tentative timeline and stuff.”

“Kent,” Jack says, sounding winded. “That’s—are you sure?”

Kent curls his fingers into the fabric of Eli’s shirt.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure. And it won’t be super soon. I’m going to start telling the team at the end of the season—the rest of the organization over the next year. Probably won’t go public for another year after that.”

He takes another breath.

“When I do, though, it might implicate you.“

Jack doesn’t say anything.

“Aces PR has been through all our old interview footage and game tapes. Apparently I, um, wasn’t super discreet about my feelings. They think they can play it off as a one-sided crush but I just wanted to warn you. Especially since two years from now you’ll probably be—“

“A rookie in the NHL,” Jack finishes. “Yeah.”

And as many years as Kent has spent with him, he has no idea what Jack is thinking right now.

He wishes he could see Jack’s face.

“I’m sorry,” he says, whispers, really. “I know that’s going to make things harder for you, but I swear, if anyone asks I’ll say—“

“Kenny.”

“I don’t want to be the reason for any more stress in your life. I’ve fucked things up for you enough.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“It feels like it,” Kent says, rough and quiet and so honest it makes his teeth hurt.

Eli’s arm around him tightens.

“It wasn’t,” Jack repeats. “And I think its—um. Good.That you’re going to come out. After all, if _you_ do then I won’t be the first.”

It’s Kent’s turn to find breathing a little difficult.

“You’re thinking about coming out?”

Jack doesn't say anything for several seconds.

“Not—not seriously. Not yet. I want to play at least a couple seasons professionally first. Prove myself, you know?”

Kent does know.

“But I will some day. And I don’t want to wait until I retire anymore.”

“Does Eric have anything to do with that?” Kent asks.

Jack’s silence is telling.

“Sorry. That’s none of my business, forget I asked.”

“No. I mean, yes? It’s—maybe.”

“What’s maybe?”

“Bittle. Eric.” Jack makes an annoyed noise. “ _Bitty_. He’s…important. And we’re not. Uh. We’re not. But.”

“But he’s making you think about it.”

“Yeah.”

“But you’re also still Jack Zimmerman.”

“Yeah.”

“I understand.”

“Yeah,” he says, laughing a little. “I bet you do. At least you’ve already proven yourself, though. Youngest captain in the NHL for the number one team in your division. Conn Smythe _and_ Calder your rookie year. Currently first in points and second in goals in the league. You could come out tomorrow if you wanted.”

And all laid out like that…Jack kind of has a point.

Kent swallows, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Aw. You still keep track of my stats?”

“Of course I do. But hey, listen. I don’t want you to have to lie for me. So just. Keep me posted about your plans, and whatever PR is telling you, okay? We have time. Who knows how I’ll feel a year from now.”

“Okay,” Kent agrees.

They both go silent and Eli shifts a little, rubbing his cold nose agains the bare skin of Kent’s chest. Eli’s nose is always cold. Even in ridiculously warm Georgia winter. Kent has no idea why but it’s hopelessly endearing.

“Thank you, Jack.” He says.

Jack doesn’t ask him for what which he appreciates. Nor does he dismiss the gratitude.

“Yeah,” he agrees. And then: “I can hear you smiling.”

“That’s because I am.”

“Good.”

“Hey, I think Maman is downstairs making coffee, so—“

“Go. I’ll talk to you later. Or, uh, text you later?”

“Yeah.”

“Merry Christmas, Jack.”

“Merry Christmas, Kenny.”

He ends the call and lets his phone slide down the pillow, disappearing into the cloud of Eli’s duvet. He just breathes for a minute, eyes caught on the dark wood of the peaked ceiling.

He thinks maybe it should hurt, that Jack is considering coming out. That he doesn’t want to wait until retirement—something he’d been so, painfully, adamant about for so many years. He thinks maybe it should hurt that Jack might be willing to do it for Eric—a kid he’s known for less than six months—when he wasn’t willing to do it for Kent. But it doesn’t hurt. Or maybe it doesn't hurt as much as it could. Because Eli is stretched out in a solid line of warmth next to him, tracing absent patterns on his stomach with gentle fingers, letting him process.

What does hurt is how broken, in retrospect, his relationship with Jack had been. How disjointed and non-communicative, and unintentionally cruel they'd been to each other—both terrified, with no idea how to love someone and no one they could go to for help figuring out how. He can’t say he wishes that first, desperate, kiss at sixteen had never happened, but he hurts for his past self. For past Jack. For both of them. It wasn’t fair.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Eli makes a distressed noise and sits up, leaning over to thumb away his tears, eyes wide and concerned, and Kent cannot with Eli’s stupid beautiful self right now.

He hides his face in Eli’s lap, embarrassed, wraps his arms around Eli’s waist, and tries to get a goddamn hold on himself. Because, honestly.

“Hey,” Eli says, fingers hesitant in his hair. “Is this good crying or bad crying because I am really bad at this shit and I don’t know what to do, here.”

“I’m not crying,” Kent lies.

“Okay. Well. Are you, um, not crying in a good way or not crying in a bad way?”

He laughs wetly.

“Good. I think. Just.” He breathes for a moment, thinks about being honest and making things simple and saying what he means and all the other super frustrating shit that therapy has introduced to him that is actually kind of helpful and—

“I think I’m sad, because Jack and I had a pretty fucked up relationship, but we didn't know any better and we ended up just making things worse for each other. And that sucks. But I’m also relieved? Because we’re both so much happier and healthier now. But then that makes me mad like, on behalf of my past self. Our past selves. Because we were just kids. And it’s not right that we had so much pressure on us and that we so afraid of being caught and— _it’s not fair._ ”

His voice might break on the last word.

Eli’s fingers move more purposely through his hair.

“You’re right. It’s not. I can’t even imagine what you went through and you are completely allowed to be upset about it. Sad and relieved and angry and happy and whatever else you need to feel.”

Sometimes it is abundantly clear that Eli is also in therapy.

“But, hey,” his voice goes kind of rounded and soft. “Think about the impact you’ll have when you come out. You can prove to kids all over the world in situations just like the one you were in that living with secrecy and shame isn’t the only option. Think about what it would have meant for you, if there had been an out player in the league. And not just an out player, but a captain, with awards and accolades, and like…sponsorship deals with Gatorade.”

“I don’t have a sponsorship with Gatorade.”

“Oh my god, Kent. You know what I’m saying.”

He does. And it’s…admittedly not something Kent had thought of previously. But Eli is right. It would have made a difference to have that as a kid. Maybe even a huge difference.

“You’re right,” he says, face still tucked somewhere in the vicinity of Eli’s upper thigh. “Thank you.”

Neither of them move, apart from Eli’s restless fingers, for several seconds.

“So,” Eli says, eventually. “I know we’re having like, an emotionally fraught moment and everything, but your mouth is really close to my dick right now and I have to pee, so—“

Kent cracks up, which judging by the restrained noise Eli makes probably doesn’t help things. Kent is tempted to explore that a little further but they haven’t talked about the sex thing again, despite the fact that, after yesterday, he’s pretty sure Eli is ready to move forward on that front. Kent is also kind of a mess right now and he doesn’t want to have puffy eyes from not-crying the first time he gets his mouth on Eli because that is probably the least sexy thing ever.

“I should shower,” he says, resigned, and sits up.

“After I use the bathroom,” Eli says.

“I guess I’ll allow it.”

Hawke, who had slept through the proceedings, wiggles her way up from the foot of the bed to say good morning.

“You want me to let her out?” Kent asks.

“Yes, please.”

He gets a close-mouthed kiss as he’s pulling on a shirt and Kent catches Eli’s hand as he starts to retreat, ducking to press his mouth to Eli’s knuckles because he’s feeling particularly overcome at the moment and it seems like the thing to do.

“Thank you,” he says, and he’s pretty sure that if Eli’s skin wasn’t so dark he’d be tomato red.

“For what?” Eli asks.

“Being with me.”

He feels like maybe that isn’t specific enough, that maybe Eli won’t understand that he doesn’t just mean this morning, but Eli’s eyes go kind of wide and serious and he says,“of course,” in a way that feels distressingly close to _always_.

“But seriously,” Eli says, tugging a little at Kent’s grip. “I really do need to pee.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better add a bit to my length estimate (probably 43ish chapters now. maybe.) because this was definitely not supposed to take an entire chapter. Whoops. 
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> The course I'm teaching is going SO WELL. We had the best discussion RE The Killing Joke this week (something I was initially apprehensive about including in the syllabus), see Tumblr for more details, but this class is really cementing for me that graphic narrative is an engaging way to introduce students to all the same theory/methodology most English courses attempt to impart, but in a format that students genuinely seem to enjoy. I've also had several quieter students drop by my office hours just to geek out about the Black Panther movie, which is rad. Sadly, it has now been 2 weeks since I have seen the sun. Everything smells like wet dog, including me. Perhaps someday the rain and fog will desist, but that day is not today.
> 
> See you next week and thanks for all the comments!!


	33. Chapter 33

Eli came out to his family on his fourteenth birthday.

Abuela was in town because his birthday and Bells’ birthday is only eight days apart and that’s a good enough excuse for her to visit for two weeks each year.

It was a Saturday and he’d spent the morning at the rink with Eric in Atlanta, and then he’d come home, done his chores because even on his birthday the goats were needy, adorable bastards, and then he collapsed, exhausted, on the couch.

He got to pick what they ate for dinner and he chose Tres Golpes because breakfast-for-dinner was the best and also because Bella had decided she hated plantains that week and, at eight years old, she was quite possibly the most annoying person _ever_. Watching her suffer through clearing her plate was it’s own gift.

He was kind of a dick at fourteen.

But then he’d opened his actual presents and of course his mother had bought him clothes and then made him try on the clothes and then nearly got teary when he came out in a button down that felt too tight around his throat. She hugged him and sighed about her baby growing up and asked if he had plans to ask someone special to the upcoming 8th-grade spring dance. When he said no, she took it upon herself to open his seventh-grade yearbook and go through the various girls she thought might be good candidates with Abuela occasionally giving her input.

And he knew they didn’t mean anything by it.

They weren’t _trying_ to upset him.

But he was fourteen and full of like, hormones, or whatever, and he’d had a very long, very tiring day, and suddenly he was unbuttoning the shirt like _it_ was the problem, throwing it onto the floor and yelling that he didn’t like any of the girls in his grade and why couldn’t they just _leave him alone?_

Which, of course, had the exact opposite effect and five minutes later he was sitting on the couch half-naked, surrounded by his family and crying that he was maybe, possibly, definitely gay, and please don’t send him to a place like he’d seen on the news where the kids did bootcamp exercises and prayed a lot until they were “fixed” or whatever because didn’t actually think there was anything _wrong_ with him.

And, surprisingly, it was his father, not his mother, who pulled him into a crushing hug and said that of _course_ there was nothing wrong with him, and they would never send him to a place like that, please don’t cry, and they loved him and would always love him no matter what and maybe go pick up your new shirt before Mama gets over her shock and remembers that you threw it, tags and all, onto the floor.

So he’d picked up his shirt, laughing a little, and was hugged by first Mama and then Abuela, who was honestly the one he was most worried about.

“You’re not mad I’m gay?” he had to ask.

“There are worse things you could be,” she said.

“Like a fútbol player,” Bella said. She was at a stage where anything the other family members liked she vehemently opposed. Exhibit A: plantains.  
“There is nothing wrong with fútbol players,” Abuela chided, and then, aside to Eli, she murmured, “feel free to bring one home.”

It was, quite honestly, a little anticlimactic. He’d been imagining for years worst-case scenarios, wondering if he should come out at all or just wait until after college, like Eric planned to do. But he just. Couldn’t. College was too far away and, unlike Eric, he didn’t think the worst-case scenario really applied to him.

Thank God he’d been right.

He spent the rest of his fourteenth birthday getting, and submitting to, perhaps, a little more affection than usual—he even got to pick the movie they watched that night, much to Bella’s dismay—and by bedtime, Mama and Abuela were cuddled up on the couch with him, going through the seventh-grade yearbook again, this time looking at the boys.

It was…good.

Really good.

And the following Christmas, when he’d come out to the rest of his family, they’d handled things with more or less equal grace, though his one cousin Toby had been a bit of a dick (incidentally, this was the same cousin who’d made fun of him for Señor Fox). Eli didn’t even have to decide whether it was worth punching him over, though, because two of his other cousins piled on Toby a moment later and then, once Toby’s mom found out what he’d said, he didn’t get dessert. So that was fine too.

It’d taken him ages to fall asleep that Christmas night, watching the shadows shift across the ceiling and imagining that maybe, someday, he might have someone else in the bed with him, visiting for the holidays. That maybe, someday, he might actually get the chance to wake up with his boyfriend or his husband in his childhood room, to go downstairs to the madness of his wonderful, ridiculous, family, to perhaps, far off in the future, put to use one of the half-dozen fold-away baby cots that his mom has stashed in various closets around the house.

Because that—marriage and kids and _family_ — was suddenly possible—not just a best-case scenario. Everyone he cared about knew and still accepted him.

It was probably one of the happiest realizations of his life.

Now, laying curled in Kent’s recently abandoned warmth, staring at the same ceiling only five years later, Eli grins a little hysterically up at the rafters. Because it’s happening. And it’s even better than he imagined.

Eli decides to go back to sleep once Kent gets in the shower because it’s unlikely it will take him less than fifteen minutes and while he can hear his mama and abuela are awake, Bells definitely won’t be up yet and breakfast won’t start until the rest of the family drives in from Atlanta. So he lays there and enjoys the smell of menthol and Kent on his sheets and the soft, indistinct noise of conversation, punctuated by occasional laughter, coming from downstairs. He drifts, not quite asleep, but not really fully awake, either, until Kent emerges from the bathroom, pink-faced and damp-skinned, jumping onto the bed in a gust of vanilla-scented air. He’s only wearing boxer briefs—the black under-amour ones with neon green stitching that he _knows_ Eli likes— and he wiggles his way back under the comforter and then drapes himself on top of Eli, grinning.

“Merry Christmas,” Kent says, pressing a humid kiss to the little section of skin under Eli’s left ear.

“Merry Christmas,” he agrees.

And then there’s the distinct sound of cars coming down the gravel driveway, followed, inevitably, by a sudden upheaval of noise downstairs.

Kent sits up, considering.

“Did a child army just besiege the house?”

“Besiege, huh?”

“You used ‘besieged’ in your paper about the Mesopotamian war,” Kent says absently, rubbing his knuckles against the short grain of the shaved portion of Eli’s hair“It’s a good word. I like it.”

“You read my paper about the Mesopotamian war?”

Kent looks at him like he’s a moron.

“Yes? You left it on the counter. You said I could.”

“I know I said you could, but I didn’t think you’d actually—“

“Why wouldn’t I? I like history and I like you. You writing _about_ history is like, the best. And even if I didn’t like history I would still be supportive.I looked through your Calculus bluebook too even though I didn’t understand any of it.”

And Eli has to kiss him for that.

Kent still looks disgruntled, but more or less appeased, when they separate a minute or so later.

Another car arrives and the noise level downstairs multiplies exponentially.

Kent’s eyebrows go up again.

“We should get dressed,” Eli says. “Are you ready for this?”

“I don’t know, am I?”

“Probably not.”

Kent pouts at him.

“I’m the youngest of six cousins and all but one of them are married and have at least one kid. None of which are over the age of five. So.”

Kent’s eyes go a little wide.

“Okay,” he says seriously and then—

Well. That’s literally Kent’s game face.

He kisses Kent again because he figures Kent wouldn’t appreciate him laughing, and then goes to get dressed so they can join the chaos downstairs.

Christmas with his family and Kent is exactly as outrageous as Eli expected. Once everyone is seated at the tables—one main, two over-flow—Abuela explains over crying babies and toddler chatter that Eli’s boyfriend Kent is a closeted professional athlete and that no one is to take or post any pictures of him online under pain of her wrath, which is followed by nearly every adult getting out their phone and googling Kent, much to Kent’s dismay.

Eli’s oldest cousin Markus doesn’t have to, however, because he lives in NY and apparently gets Rangers tickets from his company pretty regularly. This provides a relieved Kent with a solid 20 minutes of conversation since Kent played in juniors with one of the Rangers new rookies—Jesse Nash—and they fall easily into a friendly argument about the last Aces/Ranger game (the Rangers won—but only, Kent maintains, because Tater and Matts had both been out with minor injuries).

When they move into the living room to open gifts, Eli and Kent share a chair that is technically too small for two people, but neither of them complain, and they drink eggnog-doctored coffee and laugh over the sheer, overwhelming, exuberance of the children present.

Later, when the floor is a sea of wrapping paper and empty bags, and the kids are scattered playing with their new toys, the adults get their turn. It’s mostly clothes and home-goods—“needs” rather than “wants” as Abuela terms it—until, of course, they get to Kent’s presents.

He’s already looking a little sheepish, wearing the hand-made crocheted scarf Abuela gave him and Eli braces himself. He’d given Kent what was, for his budget, a pretty expensive selection of gifts: a matching custom collar set—one for Kit and one for Hawke, a very soft, very clingy, t-shirt that was admittedly more for Eli than Kent, and a new Kindle since he knew Kent’s old one was having issues charging. He knows that whatever Kent has gotten for Eli, though,—and apparently the rest of his family—probably blows that out of the water.

Kent grins a little self-consciously as Abuela passes out his gifts. He has one arm around Eli, the other awkwardly extended over the arm of the chair so Estaci, Markus’ four-year-old daughter, can paint his nails with one of her new nail polishes. She isn’t doing a very good job, but Kent doesn’t seem to care.

The long, skinny package for Eli’s dad is a new pair of DeWalt barbed wire cutters—god knows the others were rusted to hell— and a pair of Duluth kevlar work gloves which Papa genuinely seems happy about. Mama is perhaps even more excited and she moves to hug Kent—gently, so as not to disturb Estaci’s work—muttering that maybe now her stubborn fool of a husband wont come home bleeding every time he has to fix the fence. Abuela gets an envelope with a notification that her new yellow stand mixer will arrive to her house in the Dominican Republic the day after her own return in two weeks and she promptly blesses him, his future children, and all his hockey endeavors—in Spanish, of course, but judging by his pleased grin, Kent gets the gist of it. Mama, similarly gets an envelope informing her that Kent has prepaid for a year’s worth of monthly bird seed delivery from amazon, at which point she tells Kent he’s looking a little hungry and goes to fix him another plate because Eli’s mom is just as bad with emotions as Eli is. Bella gets a pair of Jordans which she promptly screams about, thanks Kent effusively, and then begs to borrow Mama’s phone so she can FaceTime her best friend to brag.

Eli is the only one that cries, of course, but then he’s the only one to receive a new pair of custom-made Riedell ice skating boots with John Wilson Gold Seal blades. And he knows they’re custom because the black boots have shiny red-lacquered soles—like Louboutins—and he doesn’t even want to think about how much trouble Kent must have went through to make that happen or how much he must have _spent_ —

“Oh,” Kent says, when Eli starts tearing up, one of the new boots cradled reverently in his open palms. “No, hey, is—sorry, Estaci can I have my hand back?—are you okay? Are, uh, the skates okay? Because I talked to Jeff _and_ your coach, but—”

“They’re _perfect_ ,” Eli manages, more than a little strangled.

_Kent_ is perfect.

Oh God.

And maybe Eli has to hide his face in his boyfriend’s chest for a minute.

It’s fine.

It’s not embarrassing at all.

By the time he’s managed to get a hold of himself, most of the cousins have migrated to the kitchen and are putting together a fútbol game. Markus is still arguing with Anna about last summer’s game and Bella is declaring that they’ll have to replace her because now that she’s put the Jordans on she refuses to take them off and she’s certainly not about to _get dirt on them oh my god how could you even suggest that_. Eli is glad his parents have held firm on the whole “no phone until freshman year of high school” thing because if she had access to Instagram the whole feed would probably be the damn shoes for the next month. She really is happy, though, and Kent looks endlessly pleased with himself.

“Hey,” Markus calls to Eli, “is your boy playing? He can take Bella’s spot.”

“Oh, no,” Eli starts, but he’s interrupted by Kent’s, even louder, “sure!”

“You don’t have to play,” Eli says, lowly.

“What? Of course I’m going to play,” Kent answers, and the look on his face is—

Oh.

Oh no.

“Do you even know _how_?”

It is immediately clear this is the wrong thing to ask.

“Oh my god. I know how to play _soccer,_ Eli—futbol, whatever—I was on a team in elementary school. And the Aces kick a ball around the hallway before every game.”

“That’s….really not the same.”

Kent makes a dismissive noise.

“So I’ll figure it out. I may not know Spanish, but chirping is universal. If I _don’t_ play, none of your cousins are going to respect me.”

“I mean. To be fair, if you _do_ play they probably won’t either,” Eli says, just to make sure his position is clear. His family doesn’t mess around with their fútbol. Kent is going to get wrecked and it will not be Eli’s responsibility.

“I’m a _professional athlete_ ,” Kent says, exasperated. “I’ll be fine.”

“Sure you will, sweetheart.”

When they huddle up in their respective teams a few minutes later, Eli interrupts Markus’ game-plan speech with a firm warning.

“Do _not_ break my boyfriend,” Eli says, looking pointedly at Toby. “I know he’s an overly competitive moron but his ankles are also worth several million dollars so if any of you so much as thinks about tripping him to prove a point I will have you excommunicated from this family. Everyone knows I’m Abuela’s favorite. I can make it happen.”

No one argues because they know it’s true.

It turns out that Kent isn’t, actually, that bad. He cant handle the ball to save his life but he’s fast and arguably the most fit person out there—his endurance is definitely better than Eli’s—so he manages to hold his own better than anticipated. Eli’s team wins, mostly because they have Anna’s wife who played NCAA soccer, which is probably cheating but Eli doesn’t care because it’s to his advantage. The other team does care, though, and they all troop back into the house for water, arguing, but too hot to play a second game with new teams. By the time they’ve all reintegrated in the living room and kitchen with the rest of the family—lunch preparations in full swing—Kent has been handed a baby.

And honestly.

That’s just not fair.

He comes to stand next to Eli, still breathing a little hard, sweaty and smudged with red Georgia dirt, holding a content, ringlet-haired eight-month-old and looking a little concerned about it, overly cautious and wide-eyed, one hand—the hand spanning the infant’s back— still badly painted with glittery pink nail polish.

Eli loves him so much it’s a little scary.

“I need to go check on the goats,” he lies.

Because. Well. Emotions.

The goats are fine, which isn’t exactly a surprise, but as he’s walking back to the house, watching Hawke chase grasshopers, he receives a cryptic message from Eric instructing him to call back when he had a minute alone.

Curiosity piqued, Eli does so.

“So,” Eric says in lei of ‘hello’ after the second ring, “Kent is planning a surprise thing for you but I’m pretty sure it’s the type of surprise that you’d rather know about in advance.”

“Uh. Okay?”

“So do you want to know?”

“I don’t—do I? I mean. I trust your judgement.”

Eric lets out a sigh of relief.

“Right. So. He’s asked Mama to borrow her truck tomorrow night and then asked me about typical date places around town as well as typical—uh. _Date_ places. I recommended the mill, obviously, but if you’d rather Eddy Spring I can text Kent directions there instead. I mean, I think the mill will be safe since the day after christmas isn’t exactly going to be busy in terms of parking real estate, but it’s up to you, obviously.”

It takes Eli a moment to compute that.

“Oh my god,” he says faintly. “Are you serious?”

“Yup,” Eric says, popping the ‘p.’

“That’s—the mill is—“

Perfect.

Ridiculous.

The location of nearly every embarrassing erotic high school fantasy he’s ever had.

“Fine.”

He clears his throat.

“Your mom is really letting him borrow the truck?”

“Mhhm. And it sounds like your grandma is going to supply him with a bed full of quilts and a picnic to share. Mama and Aba have been texting back and forth all day and are frankly a little disturbingly invested in getting you laid. Not that they've actually said that. Mama is talking about it like yall are going to hold hands and watch the sunset or something. I guess that bodes well for me, regardless, though. If I ever decide to come out to them, I mean. This is about you, though.”

“Oh my god,” Eli repeats.

“Anyway,” Eric continues, “from what I’ve gathered, Kent is going to take you to an early movie in town and then drive y'all up to park above the spillway and despoil you in the truck bed under the stars which—“ Eli makes a noise but Eric talks right over him, “is a little cliche for my taste but I’m pretty sure is _exactly_ how you’d love to lose your virginity, weirdo that you are.”

“Uh. yeah.”

“Uh yeah?” Eric mimics, maybe mocking him a little.

“That would be nice,” Eli says delicately.

And if that isn’t the most massive understatement—

“I may have mentioned the fact that I didn’t get to do stuff like that in high school,” Eli continues. “So Kent is probably, uh. He might have remembered. That.”

“Ugh. Y'all are disgustingly cute. So, you’re okay with this? I didn’t want you to be blindsided if you weren’t—“

“No. No, I am. Holy shit, I am. But—tomorrow? This is happening tomorrow?”

Oh fuck.

This is happening tomorrow.

“Yessir,” Eric says blithely, completely missing the fact that Eli is having something of a crisis. “So make sure your manscaping is in order and don’t like, stuff yourself with popcorn at the movie. And maybe bring bug spray. I told Kent the mosquitos are no joke out there and he opted for citronella candles, romantic fool that he is, but it might be good to have a plan B.”

Eli isn’t really listening because he’s going to have sex with Kent Parson tomorrow.

_Tomorrow._

“Eric,” Eli interrupts, and he stops walking because the back porch is getting a little too close for comfort. Hawke runs into his knees and then sneezes at him to show her displeasure.

“Okay," Eli says. "Okay. So. This is happening. Tomorrow. Shit. What do I do?"

“I mean. Suck his dick, probably.”

_“_ Eric _.”_

“Well. He’s definitely planning to suck yours.”

“ _Eric_.”

But—

“Wait,” Eli says. “He told you that?”

“Sweetheart, he didn’t need to. Have you _seen_ the way he fellates his mouthguard between plays? That boy has an oral fixation a mile wide.”

And.

Yes.

Eli may have noticed that.

Somebody yells his name and he jumps, squinting up toward the house.

It’s Anna, letting him know that lunch is ready.

“I have to go,” he says. “But, uh. Thanks for the heads up.”

“You’d do the same for me. Or at least you’d better. Anything you want me to pass on to Kent? Any _special requests_?”

His voice is dripping with implication.

“Goodbye, Eric.”

“Alright, alright. I expect deets, for my trouble, though. Preferably the minute you get home tomorrow night. I’ll stay up.”

“ _Goodbye_ , Eric.”

“DEETS, Elijah!”

Eli hangs up on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> I am SO sorry for this chapter being a week late. I had surgery last week and significantly underestimated how difficult my recovery was going to be (see Tumblr for my pity-party posts). The good news is that, while still in quite a bit of pain, I'm more or less functional again. Yay.
> 
> It's spring break and even though I spent the majority of it languishing in bed and watching HGTV while my mother (a saint, let me tell you) catered to my needs, I will hopefully get some good writing in the next 2-3 days before I have to return to the real world.
> 
> See you next week!


	34. Chapter 34

“So,” Kent says the following afternoon. “Do you want to go take a shower and get dressed to go out?”

Eli blinks up at him from where they’re lazily cuddling on the porch swing.

“I don’t know, do I?”

“I think you do.”

“Hmm,” he says, trying not to smile. “What do you mean by ‘out’? What would I need to wear?”

Kent clears his throat. “An outfit might have been left for you on the bed.”

“Oh, it might have been? That’s a masterful use of the passive voice there.”

“Eli.”

“Kent.”

He ducks a little, shoving his face against Eli’s temple.

“Please go get ready? I’m trying to do a thing.”

“Oh, well, a _thing_ , why didn’t you say so sooner—“

Kent dumps him off the swing.

There is, indeed, an outfit laid on the bed, and Eli has a sneaking suspicion that Eric was involved in the selection process. The shorts are—short. A pair of pale blue Chubbies that shrunk in the wash and were relegated to the back of Eli’s closet sometime last year. They still fit around his waist but they cling to his thighs in a way that is downright risqué for small-town Georgia sensibilities. Luckily they’re tempered by a plain t-shirt, a thin white button-down and striped nautical canvas Vans which are brand new and definitely not something that was previously in his closet.

Eli sighs at Hawke because Kent isn’t there to sigh at and then he goes to take a thorough shower, and put the damn clothes on because he may need to have another conversation with Kent about his gift-giving proclivities but he’s not going to do it now when a fight would ruin what is hopefully going to be an otherwise excellent night.

When he returns downstairs, dressed and ready, Kent has clearly used a different bathroom and is dressed similarly in jeans and a white button-down—sleeves rolled to his elbows, showing off one of his stupid gaudy watches and wearing a snapback that matches Eli’s shoes.

This isn’t lost on Bella who dissolves into laughter and says they’re disgusting before returning her attention to what appears to be a very intense scrabble game with the cousins.

“So,” Kent says, already pink. “Are you ready?”

“I guess. You going to tell me where we’re going?”

“Nope.”

“Then yeah, absolutely, let's go.”

Abuela laughs indiscreetly in the kitchen.

“Okay,” Kent says. “Can you wait here for a second so I can—“ he points vaguely toward the front porch and Eli is actually a little lost.

“Uh. Sure?”

Kent wipes his palms on his thighs, like he’s actually nervous or something, and then just…walks out the front door, shutting it firmly behind him. Eli goes from a little lost to entirely lost when the doorbell rings a few seconds later, but before he can open it and ask Kent if he’s lost his mind, his father comes out of the kitchen and pushes him gently aside.

Upon opening the door, his father crosses his arms.

“Good afternoon. How can I help you?”

Eli looks back and forth between them, baffled, because apparently they’ve both lost their minds.

“Afternoon, sir,” Kent says, extending one hand. “I’m Kent Parson, I’m here to pick up Eli for our date?”

“Oh my God,” Eli says as they shake somberly. “You guys. Stop it.”

“Hush,” his dad says, “I’m talking to your suitor, here,” and then, turning back to Kent, “Tell me a little about yourself, Mr. Parson. Do you make good grades? Do you have a job? A plan for the future?”

Abuela snickers from somewhere behind Eli and he glances over his shoulder to find that everyone in the living room has abandoned their various pursuits and are now watching raptly like Eli’s ridiculous boyfriend being ridiculous is some sort of spectator sport.

“Well,” Kent says, actually looking a little bashful. “My grades weren’t the best. But I do have a pretty good job.”

“Pretty good?” Eli’s dad says skeptically.

“Around two and a half million dollars annually if you count my sponsorships. And I have a financial planner guy who’s helping me manage things wisely.”

“Well. I guess that’s acceptable.”

Several people in the living room stifle giggles.

“Mr. Parson, what are your intentions with my son?”

“Oh, you know,” Kent says, grin finally breaking through his serious demeanor, “love him, cherish him, take him to a movie and have him back by eleven.”

Eli’s dad glances at the clock—barely 6 pm—and raises an eyebrow.

“It’s a very long movie,” Kent says, utterly straight-faced.

“Make it 10:30.”

“Yessir,” Kent agrees, and then turns to grin at Eli, extending one hand.

“Hey, baby,” he says, going even pinker. “You ready?”

And yes.

Eli is so, _so_ ready.

Kent holds open the passenger door to Eric’s mom’s freshly-washed baby-blue truck and offers Eli a hand up into the cab even though it’s not that high, then makes sure Hawke is settled in the floorboard before tucking her tail out of harms way and shutting the door. He leans over the gear shift to kiss Eli once he’s climbed into the driver’s seat.

“How’m I doing so far?” Kent asks, flushed and looking exceptionally pleased with himself.

“Nine out of ten,” Eli says.

Kent’s face falls. “What did I miss?”

“No flowers?” Eli says, pitching his voice high, with a hand to his chest. “Kenneth, I expect to be _wooed_.”

Kent wrinkles his nose. “You hate flowers. And you’re allergic to most of them.”

“Mm. True. Then you should have brought something for Hawke instead. We’re a package deal, after all. You need to woo her too.”

“Next time,” he says seriously, and Eli has to kiss him again.

“For real, though, ten out of ten. This is awesome. I can’t believe you went through all this trouble. When we get back to Vegas I’m returning the favor.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Hell yeah. I’m going to take you on the best date of your life.”

“You going to bring something for Kit? Ask her permission to take me out?”

“Obviously.”

“I look forward to it.”

The little cinema in town is almost entirely empty and they get tickets for an standard-fare action movie who’s theater _is_ entirely empty.

“Why Mr. Rodriguez,” Kent murmurs once they’re settled, sliding his arm along the back of Eli’s seat. “It would seem we’re all alone.”

“That we are, Mr. Parson. Except for Hawke, of course.”

“Mmm,” Kent agrees, glancing down at her. “Not the most attentive chaperone, though.What are your thoughts about PDA?” He ducks to press his mouth to the hinge of Eli’s jaw.

“Generally positive, but not when a movie is about to start.”

Kent pauses, glancing up to meet Eli’s eyes.

“Seriously?” There’s a little bit of a whine to his tone.

Eli refuses to find it cute.

“We paid $20 for tickets to see this movie, Kent. We are going to _watch_ it.”

“ _I_ paid $20,” Kent mutters, peevish.

The lights dim and Eli pushes at Kent’s face.

“You’re dangerously close to losing a point on your date ranking. Shut up and hold my hand.”

Kent shuts up and holds his hand.

Except he doesn’t just… _hold_ …his hand.

By the time previews are over, Kent’s thumb is making a gentle circular pattern against the back of Eli’s hand. It seems like an absent movement, at first, something Kent is doing unconsciously, until a few minutes into the movie when he shifts his grip a little so he can drag his fingers in maddening little hitches up and down the divots of Eli’s knuckles. And then he shifts again so he’s holding Eli’s wrist, thumb pressed to the swell of his palm, index finger circling his wrist bone, several seconds between each. Slow. Orbit. Touch so light Eli can barely feel it. And then—then Kent very intentionally trails his thumb down to press against the tendon in Eli’s wrist, turning over his hand to lay flat on the armrest between them so Kent can slide his cupped hand—light, so light—down the length of his arm and back again. His callouses catch in the fine hair on Eli’s arm in a way that the gentle pads of his fingers don’t, and the dichotomy is strangely, utterly, captivating. And then, when Eli is finally starting to get used to _that_ , Kent turns Eli’s hand palm-up again, trailing his fingers from Eli’s palm to inner-elbow, nails dragging in light, erratic, goosebumps-inciting patterns that start slow, and then build in speed and then change direction.

It’s utterly distracting.

Possibly even more distracting than making out with him would be.

Somewhere near the end of the movie—there’s a lot of explosions and screaming but Eli has absolutely no idea what’s happening because Kent has somehow turned _hand-holding_ into foreplay—Eli gives up and shifts so he’s mostly in Kent’s lap.

Kent laughs for a solid minute before Eli manages to shove his tongue in Kent’s still-grinning mouth and maybe the $20 wasn’t exactly put to good use, but it wasn’t _wasted_ , either.

When the theater lights come back on, Eli’s mouth feels tender and Kent’s hands are halfway up the back of his shirt and they’re both breathing a little harder than is really appropriate for a public venue.

Eli pushes his face into the humid pocket between Kent’s neck and shoulder and just breathes the warm scent of him for several seconds, because Eli is wearing really tight shorts and he’s going to need a minute before he can stand up. It’s a nice portion of neck, Eli thinks absently, kissing what might be a cluster of freckles or might be a shadow. Good real-estate. He could live here happily.

Kent thumbs his spine, sighing, and glances toward the exit where an usher has just pulled open the door, talking to someone in the hallway

“Care to relocate?” Kent asks.

And that’s probably best.

Back in the truck, they hold hands— _normal_ hand-holding—with the windows down, Kent grinning and refusing to tell Eli where they’re heading as he takes surreptitious looks at his phone in his lap.

The great thing about bench seats is that Eli can slide over and lean into Kent’s side, rest his temple on the swell of Kent’s shoulder and revel in the fact that he’s in a car with a beautiful boy watching the sunset over a one-lane road that's more pothole than asphalt, with wind in his face and Hawke’s chin on his knee and country music on the radio.

It’s perfect.

Almost too perfect.

And it sort of makes him anxious—like surely something will go wrong, _has_ to go wrong, because he doesn’t just _get_ moments like this.

Except maybe he does, now.

He slides his fingers up Kent’s forearm, repaying the favor from earlier, tracing one of the veins that stands out, subtle and maddening in the golden-skinned space between wrist and elbow.

Maybe this is just his life, now.

Maybe after everything—maybe he just gets to be happy.

He realizes he’s getting a little maudlin but it doesn’t matter because they’ve hit the river and Kent is cautiously taking the right-hand fork from asphalt to red dirt that meanders up the bluff to the completely unauthorized parking area in the trees that overlooks the mill.

The mill is a monument, one of the few in their tiny town—and every elementary school student visits it on a class trip at some point. It was built in 1901 and restored in the sixties—a shingled building atop a stone damn, dwarfed by the slow-moving wooden-slatted wheel attached to it. It has all sorts of historical relevance, of course, but it’s mostly known for its romantic aesthetic, settled in the gentle bend of the green-blue river, shaded by massive oak trees that turn a host of fiery colors in the fall.

Unsurprisingly, the well-worn grass plane at the top of the bluff is empty, and Kent’s eyes are wide and exceptionally blue as he turns off the engine.

“This is…ridiculously pretty,” he says, leaning out the window a little.

“I mean. Holy shit. This is like. _Fake_ pretty.”

The sun is mostly set, but the pink-orange on the horizon behind the damn is reflecting below in the water, warped a little by the current. The whippoorwillsare outen mass as well, blanketing the trees in a soft susurrus of sleepy birdsong that complements the quiet rush of water over moving paddles below.

Eli allows himself a moment of pride because this—this is his _home_. Even if it was only an accident of birth that gave him claim to it.

“Yeah,” he agrees, hooking his chin over Kent’s shoulder. “It’s pretty great, huh?”

Kent turns, his nose wrinkled a little in genuine happiness, and within a few seconds Eli finds himself knocked over, head awkwardly propped on the passenger door with 185 pounds of professional hockey player stretched out on top of him, mouthing lazily at his neck. He pushes back, redirecting Kent’s lips to his own and revels a little in the soft sound of encouragement Kent makes in the back of his throat. A few minutes later, Eli’s got his hands fisted in the fabric of Kent’s shirt, trying to drag it over his head even though his stupid snapback is still in the way, when Kent puts some space between them, laughing.

“Hold on, let me—sorry. Sorry. You distracted me. We need to—I had a _plan_.”

Eli glances at their surroundings. “Is the plan not sex? Because—“

Kent chokes a little. “It doesn’t have to be. I just wanted to give you your high school—“ he waves a hand around, “whatever.”

“My high school whatever.” Eli repeats.

“Yes,” Kent says with dignity, pulling his shirt straight again.

“And if my ‘high school whatever’ involves sex?”

Kent’s already pink ears go progressively more red. He hooks his thumb toward the back of the truck.

“I, uh. Also prepared for that scenario.”

“Did you.”

“And I definitely promised Mrs. Bittle that we wouldn’t—that we would keep any, um—“

“Amorous activities?” Eli supplies.

“—amorous activities outside the cabin of the truck.”

“Well,” Eli says. “I guess we better get out then.”

There’s a duffle in the truck bed with no less than six quilts—all of which Eli recognizes from various closets around his house—, an assortment of throw pillows, and an honest to god picnic basket. Kent goes into narrowed-eyed play-making mode, laying out his stash and then consulting his phone before setting up the back of the truck like he’s trying to recreate some sort of romantic Pinterest post.

Which, actually, knowing Eric, is pretty likely.

Eli lets Hawke out to explore, knowing she’ll stay close, steals a coke from the picnic basket, sits on the roof, and submits himself to being wooed.

The stars are coming out—bright and startling after so many months spent in a light-polluted city—when Kent jumps off the tailgate to survey his work.

Eli is admittedly impressed.

“So?” Kent says, hands on his hips.

“I’m feeling thoroughly romanced," Eli says. "10/10 for both effort and execution.”

Eli points to one blanket, still folded over the side.

“I think you forgot one, though.”

“Oh,” Kent takes off his hat to scratch at the back of his head before replacing it. “Abuela heavily implied that you were conceived under that quilt. Wasn’t sure how I felt about that.”

Eli grimaces.

“Yeah. Maybe we leave that one in the cab.”

“Good plan.”

As Kent is leaned in the window to deposit the blanket on the floor board he makes a revelatory noise and pulls out a plastic Walmart bag.

“I can’t believe I almost forgot,” he says, more to himself than Eli, and then dumps its contents at Eli’s feet.

Apparently Kent has bought out Walmart’s citronella candle section because he balances four on either side of the truck bed, and then beckons Eli down so he can place three more on the roof, struggling to get them lit in the light wind.

“You know this is ridiculous, right?” Eli says, cross-legged and almost euphorically happy. “Like. You didn’t need to do any of this. I’m a sure thing.”

Kent looks at him like he’s a moron.

He crawls over to sit next to Eli, shoulder to shoulder, eyebrows pinched.

“I know. I’m not…trying to coerce you or something. I just wanted to—“ he stops. Takes a breath. Starts again. “You deserve good things. To be treated like—like you’re the best thing. Because you are. And I know I’m going to fuck things up because I’ve never been in a relationship before, and I’m, you know, human. But this is something I can do right. Do better.”

“Better than what?” Eli says, maybe a little hoarse.He cups his palm over Kent’s knuckles, a sharp jut of bone where he’s clenching his hand on his thigh. “Literally no one but you has ever touched me. Well. Other than me. I’ve definitely, uh…touched. Me.”

He clears his throat, wincing, but at least his awkwardness gets a laugh out of Kent who turns his hand, linking their fingers together.

“Well. I know—“

Kent licks his lips, eyes on their joined hands.

“You’re giving up a lot,” Kent says. “To be with me. And I know that between my issues and my career and my past—it’s going to suck sometimes. Being my boyfriend. Especially when I can’t even publicly admit that you _are_ , so. I just want to do as many things that I have control over right. So that maybe the shitty things won't hurt as bad when they happen.”

Eli has no idea how to respond to that, except to maybe cry, because Kent is so—Kent. And the fact that he thinks he needs to like, build up some sort of positive-experience buffer so that Eli is willing to stick around is more than a little heartbreaking.

He lets go of Kent’s hand so he can climb into his lap, plants a decisive kiss on his mouth, and then starts unbuttoning Kent’s shirt.

“Um.” Kent says.

“I love you,” Eli says, maybe a little more aggressively than intended. “And I appreciate all this romantic shit and the fact that you want me to have good memories or whatever but I’m pretty sure anything we do tonight is going to be good because it’s _us_ and _I love you._ So can we please get naked before these citronella candles all go out and we get eaten alive by mosquitos?”

Kent stifles his laughter in Eli’s shoulder, squeezing him so tightly that he has to give up on the shirt buttons for a minute.

“Yeah,” he says, “Okay.”

And then there’s quite a bit more laughter on both of their parts because Kent tries to keep his hat on throughout the process of removing his clothes and actually succeeds despite Eli’s valiant attempts to pull the stupid thing off his head. It should be ridiculous, honestly, Kent should _look_ ridiculous, but hockey players bodies are no joke and even with one sock on and a half-askew snapback, Kent is—he’s—

Everything about him is unfair.

Eventually Eli wrestles the hat off his head and throws it over the side of the truck—much to Kent’s consternation— and then things are abruptly a lot less funny and lot more sexy because. Well. There’s a whole hell of a lot of naked professional athlete stretched out underneath Eli and they’re kind of sweaty, chest to chest, breathing each other's air which—

Kent sits up a little, one hand spanning Eli’s lower back, the other cupped around the nape of his neck.

“Hey,” he says, “tell me if you don’t want—“

Eli does want.

He wants a lot.

Eli touches the pair of freckles just below Kent’s right eye, then drags his thumb down to rest on Kent’s bottom lip, grinning as Kent exhales, long and slow and a little shuddery.

“Hey,” Eli says.

“Hey,” Kent agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a chapter of pure, unadulterated fluff (and a smidge of wish fulfillment? maybe?) 
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> My class is reading Check Please! this week and even though their homework over it isn't due until Thursday night I've already had several students turn their responses in early on Canvas. There was one guy in particular who Hard Core identified with Bitty on the "southern guy afraid to come out to his parents" but also really liked Jack's character because as a big, muscular jock (football rather than hockey) who gets ragged on for his lack of fashion sense, literally no one ever expects that he's gay, (I know I certainly didn't until reading his response) but all he wants in life is to be a good athlete and find himself a boyfriend (apparently a small blonde baker sounds nice). I had a couple girls who commented on how much they adored Lardo's character and the treatment of her character by the rest of the boys. And nearly all of them had pretty well thought-out responses to various questions about narrative, artistic choices, framing, and dialogue. And that's only about half the class. I'm looking forward to getting the rest of the responses and then talking about it in class on Friday.
> 
> Okay, story time over, see you next week!
> 
> Edited to add: any of the anecdotes I share here or on Tumblr (like the one about the football player above) come with permission from the student (or are vague enough/adjusted so that they can't be tied to anyone specific). So you don't ever need to be concerned that I'm potentially outing someone or sharing sensitive/private information. I know it probably wouldn't be difficult for someone to find me, and by extension, my class rosters, in real life, so I've been very careful about that from the start! (as far as I know, none of my students have found my Tumblr/A03, but they do know I have a "blog" and participate in fandom, so it's bound to happen eventually).


	35. Chapter 35

Eli is half asleep when the alarm on Kent’s phone goes off.

Kent shifts, rolling away from him, to dig his phone out of his discarded jean’s pocket to silence it, and then tucks himself right back into Eli’s space, pressing slow, dry, kisses to his forehead, closed eyelids, the tip of his nose.

And Kent’s mouth is actually a little rough—lips chapped and kind of tugging at the sensitive skin on his cheekbone, but whatever. Eli is too fucked (heh) to really care.

“It’s 10:15,” Kent says. “We should go. Wouldn’t want to make a bad impression on your dad, bringing you home late.”

Go? No. Eli thinks that’s a terrible idea.

He ducks his face into Kent’s neck and groans.

“That’s a terrible idea,” he says, somewhere near the vicinity of Kent’s collarbone.

“Come on,” Kent laughs, sitting up. “Just think of the drive home as like…an extended relocation. To your bed. We can pick up where we left off there. Maybe after a shower.”

Which. Yeah. A shower might be good.

“Also we only have one candle still lit and I’m pretty sure a mosquito just bit me on the ass.”

That’s also fair.

“So,” Kent says, perhaps sensing that’s he’s won. “Up. Into the cab. Home.”

“Sure,” Eli says, “maybe let me put some clothes on first, though, or we definitely won’t be currying favor with my dad.”

“Alright, smartass.”

“You know, when we talked about terms of endearment, that really wasn’t what I had in mind.”

“Dick,” Kent says lovingly, ducking to kiss him.

  
As long as it took for Kent to set up the truck, it only takes a few minutes for them to pack everything back up, call Hawke out from under the bed where she’d been napping, and maneuver their way back to the main road.

They’re back to hand-holding again, this time with cooler evening air coming in the windows and a dark sea of corn fields on either side of the truck’s high-beams.

“So,” Eli says. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Oh, me too, actually,” Kent says, sounding hopeful. “You go first, though.”

Eli glances over at him, but it’s hard to tell in the dark what Kent’s face is doing.

“Okay. Well, there’s a New Years Eve party that Pike House is throwing. One of their juniors is also VP of the Gay/Straight Alliance so a couple people I know have invited me. Oh, and the Morgans will be there too.”

“Okay?” Kent says.

“Which, I wouldn’t be able to bring Hawke, but. The theme is masquerade, so everyone will be wearing masks and I thought—maybe _you_ could come with me?”

“What if something happened?” Kent asks, and clearly he’s too focused on the whole ‘Hawke won’t be there’ that’s he’s missed the fact that this is a perfect opportunity for them to do a normal college-aged couple-y thing with minimal risk for outing.

“Then you’ll take care of me.”

“Well, yeah. Obviously. But you’d have to tell me how. Like beforehand, so I’d be ready.”

“I can do that.”

“Okay.” Kent bites his lip, “Are you sure, though? You didn’t— you said you needed some time before you wanted me to, uh—”

“Kent. I’m sure. I trust you.”

“Okay.”

He pauses, hand going tighter around Eli’s, and then sits up a little straighter.

“Wait. Masquerade. So _no one would know I’m me_?”

And there it is.

“Yeah.”

“So I could go as your mysterious masked boyfriend, not bff Kent Parson?”

“I can’t believe you just said ‘bff’ un-ironically, but yes.”

“ _Oh_. Yeah! Holy shit. This is going to be _awesome_. We only have a couple days to come up with costumes, though.”

And of course that’s his first concern.

“We live in Las Vegas. I’m pretty sure we’ll work something out.”

And the dichotomy—the thought of city lights superimposed over the massive expanse of star-spangled night sky out the windshield is…a little funny.

“Point. Actually, I think Asher’s girlfriend works at a cabaret, I could see if she has any recommendations for us.”

“Perfect.”

Kent slows at a stop sign, withdrawing his hand from Eli’s so he can shift, and comes to a full stop, despite the fact that they’re very clearly the only ones on the road.

“So,” Eli says. “You said there was something you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Oh. Right.”

Eli gives him a minute because he’s Kent and Eli has spent enough time with him to know that silence isn’t bad, it just means he’s trying to get his words right.

“I know it’s way too soon. And I probably shouldn’t even bring it up. But I don’t know how far in advance you have to do things and I don’t want you to commit to something else without—uh.”

He clears his throat.

“Obviously you don’t have to give me an answer now. But I was wondering if maybe you would think about, possibly, moving in with me next year?”

His voice goes kind of thready and high at the end of the last sentence and Eli has to punch him in the shoulder because he’s already had a very emotionally fraught 24 hours and how _dare_ Kent spring something like that on him at a time like this?

“Ow,” Kent says. “I’m really, uh, not sure how to take that?”

“I can’t—are you _serious_?”

“Of course I’m serious. You hate the dorms but you have to stay in them because your scholarship doesn’t cover off-campus housing. And you already have a bunch of stuff at my place anyway. And you could use the kitchen all the time, and do your homework on the island, and I could help you exercise Hawke, especially during stressful times like finals. And you’d be there after hard games for me and we could ride to the rink together in the mornings whenever our practice schedules link up and. We could sleep in the same bed at night. Every night. Except for when I’m on roadies, obviously, but. It would be nice. I think.”

And that is…a lot.

“Okay. Clearly you’ve been thinking about this,but—“

“And I know you need time to yourself, sometimes!” Kent says, well, yells, almost. “And that’s— I respect that. And,” he swallows, eyebrows going kind of pinched.

“And I, uh. Want to facilitate your comfort.”

Eli almost laughs because clearly Kent is parroting someone else, but that just means he’s done research or asked for advice, which is even more hopelessly endearing.

“I wasn’t really sure how, though,” Kent continues, “so I asked my therapist for advice.”

There it is.

“And she said that maybe we could make the guest bedroom like, your space, and whenever you need me to leave you alone you can go in there and I’ll just pretend like you’re not even there until you’re ready to deal with people again.”

Which.

That had, admittedly, been Eli’s biggest concern.

“That would probably work,” Eli says, almost without meaning to.

And Kent lights up like the fucking sun.

“Really?”

“Yeah. We’d have to try it out and see, I guess, but that’s—it’s really cool you thought about that.”

“Well,” Kent says, still grinning. “I had help. Do you want to give it a trial run when we get back? I’m assuming you’ll be tiredand done with people from the trip, so it’d be a good—“

“Testing environment?” Eli supplies, laughing.

“Yeah. And instead of dropping you off at the dorm we could pick up some ofyour things and then just both go back to my place? And then you can do your thing and let me know if there’s anything we’d need to change or whatever? We can move furniture around, or get new furniture, if you want. Or maybe add a TV?”

“That sounds—yeah. That sounds really good. Not the TV, or the furniture, that’s ridiculous, but. We can try that, sure.”

“Good.”

They turn into the driveway and Eli lets his body go slack, falling into Kent as they lurch they way over the uneven gravel and up to the porch.  
He’s nearly vibrating with excitement and Eli grins into his shoulder.

“Was this just a ploy to get me to move in _now_?”

“No,” Kent says, a little too quickly.

“You realize we’ve only been dating for a month. Less than a month.”

“Technically, we’ve been dating since August.”

“You know what I mean, asshole.”

“I do.”

Kent turns off the engine, sighing.

“I know it’s probably too fast. But it doesn’t seem too fast.”

Eli can’t really argue with that.

“Okay. We’ll figure it out.”

“Okay.”

They just sit there in silence for a minute, leaning into one another, until the porch light turns on.

The screen door opens a second later and Eli’s papa steps out, looking very intentionally down at his watch.  
Eli digs his phone out of his pocket, screen lighting up the cab, to find that it is 10:29.

“Oh, shit.”

They scramble out of the truck, laughing, and manage to get in the door, dog included, by the time it hits 10:30.

“Cutting it close,” Papa says, faux disapproving.

“Do you remember,” Abuela says to Papa, from where she’s crocheting on the couch, “that one time you say you’ll have Alicia home by midnight and instead you bring her back three _days_ later and _married_?”

Papa clears his throat. “Well. I hope you boys had a nice night. I should be getting to bed, now.”

Abuela makes a judgmental noise.

Kent subtly high fives her.

Eli rolls his eyes and heads up the stairs.

He claims first shower and then lays in bed, damp and warm and grinning up at the peaked roof, listening as Kent curses about cold water from the bathroom.

His phone buzzes just past eleven with a text from Eric.

_SO? how was the sweet sweet Parson loving?_

Eli sends a handful of eggplant emojis, the sweat emoji, some fireworks, and a rainbow assortment of hearts because he’s a little giddy and basic as hell.

It takes Eric less than five seconds to respond.

_Yes? good??Are you even alive rn???_

_RIP_ he texts back

***

The flight back to Vegas is uneventful, though Eli and Hawke are both spoiled by first class.

Riding economy will never be the same.

Kent drops Eli off at his dorm with a duffel bag and two boxes (a concession—Kent had been advocating for four boxes initially) for Eli to fill up with whatever he may need for their agreed-upon weeklong cohabitation trial period.

Kent, meanwhile, is picking up groceries since he’d paused his delivery service during the last roady and forgot to renew it again until they were leaving the airport and talking about dinner and realized the refrigerator would be empty.

Eli has one box packed and is considering Señor Fox with crossed arms, when his phone buzzes.

He lounges across his bed, mostly upside down, to collect it from the floor and then nearly brains himself on the nightstand laughing because it’s a 5 second snapchat of Kent in the produce department holding up an eggplant, leering.

And oh god. Eli is in love with a fuckboy.

It’s less distressing than it probably should be.

By the time Kent returns to pick him up—wearing a hoodie and aviators and nothing branded with the Aces logo, trying, a little too hard, maybe, to look like a “normal college student”—Eli has more than enough clothes, school supplies, and dog stuff to last them a week.

Señor Fox is still sitting on the refrigerator, though.

Kent insists on helping him carry stuff down, since his disguise is working and no one has approached with autograph requests, but once Kent gets upstairs he spends a solid five minutes poking around Eli’s desk and closet being a nosy asshole before even looking at the boxes and bag stacked tidily by the door.

“Oh, hey,” he says, closing the refrigerator door. “Is this Señor Fox?”

Eli breathes out slowly through his nose. “I’m going to kill Eric.”

Kent ignores him, picking up Señor Fox with a gentleness that makes Eli feel things.

“Why isn’t this little guy with your stuff? Don’t you want to bring him?”

“Its just a stuffed animal,” Eli mutters, face hot.

Kent gives him a look that very clearly says he’s not buying it.

“Well,” Kent says, rubbing his thumbs over the soft internal felt of the fox’s ears. “I think we should bring him.”

“I mean. I guess if you want to.”

“I do.”

It takes them two trips to get their various travel bags, as well as Eli’s boxes, up to Kent’s apartment, but only a few minutes to unpack everything in the guest room and closet.

Kent hovers awkwardly in the hall afterward, looking uncertain of his welcome.

“So,” he says, trying to strike a casual pose and failing because he misjudged where the door frame was. He doesn’t entirely fall over, but it’s a near thing.

He clears his throat once he’s upright again.

“Do you want me to leave you alone now, or?”

Eli stifles a laugh, considering.

“Not really? I’d just like to sit and read and not talk for a while, if that’s cool. So I can do that in here or out in the living room with you.”

“Can I still touch you? Like if we sit on the couch together? I could play some NHL16 with the volume low?”

“Are you asking if we can cuddle?”

“I’m asking if we can sit in close proximity with each other. And. Maybe you could play with my hair,” Kent says casually. “If you want.”

“This is acceptable.” Eli answers, face grave.

“Okay. I’ll get the good blanket from the bedroom.”

Eli does laugh then, just a little. Because his boyfriend is an epicurean weirdo and he loves him like, a lot.

An hour later, Eli is propped in one corner between arm rest and couch back while Kent quietly curses at the TV, head in Eli’s lap (Hawke and Kit sharing the real-estate of Kent’s prone torso) when the front door opens and Jeff—holding his key, talking over his shoulder to someone, walks inside.

“Oh,” he says, when he sees them on the couch, “shit.”

And then Nicky and Asher run into Jeff where he’s stopped in the doorway.

Kent scrambles to sit up, but there’s nothing they can do about the fact that they’re both shirtless and pressed pretty close together and Kent’s hair looks like they’ve been doing something a lot less innocent then cuddling.

This is…not good.

“The hell?” Nicky says faintly, “are you two fucking?”

“Oh. Kent,” Eli says, dry as the Sahara. “ Why didn’t you tell me? I would have put my book down.”

And whatever. Sarcasm has always been his first defense and he’s not sure how Kent wants to play this, but he probably isn’t ready to come out to more teammates quite yet, so—

“Eli is my boyfriend,” Kent says evenly. “If that’s what you mean.”

Or maybe he is ready.

Jeff whacks Nicky on the back of the head so he loses the gape-fish look he’s got going on. And Nicky hits Jeff back automatically because apparently hockey players are all musclebound children.

“That…actually makes a lot of sense,” Asher says. “Cool.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jeff says, still slapping at Nicky’s face. “I left my headphones here last week and I didn’t think you guy’s flight got back for another hour. I thought we could just run up and grab them on the way to dinner.”

“Wait,” Asher says, “you guys spent Christmas together?” He turns to look at Jeff. “You _knew_?”

And now he’s wearing a kicked puppy expression.

Kent runs a hand through his absolutely wild hair, and then turns to glare at Eli because, yes, he might have started a tiny french braid at the top of Kent’s head where his hair is the longest.

He is unrepentant.

“Tater and Rushy know too, “Kent says. “I was planning to tell the whole team soon. It wasn’t because I didn’t trust you or anything, I just wanted to do it in stages.”

Asher nods, but he still kind of looks like a large, sad, blonde, puppy. Then again, Asher tends to look like that most of the time.

“We won’t tell anyone,” he says loyally, “right Nicky?”

“Yeah, no. Of course not. We got your back,” Nicky says. “Sorry for like, barging in or whatever. Interrupting whatever you guys were doing.”

He grins suggestively, showing his missing front tooth.

“Oh my god,” Eli says, gesturing to the paused TV. “We weren’t doing _anything_ , Kent was just playing video games and I was reading.”

“Shit, that’s even worse.” Nicky says.

“What? Why?” Kent asks.

“Dude. You were _cuddling_.”

“We were not.”

“Kent,” Asher asks, squinting at the TV. “Are you playing NHL16 as yourself?”

“Of course, my stats are awesome.”

“So, wait,” Nicky says to Kent, “Back to the cuddling thing. Are you the big spoon or the little spoon?”

“Is that sexual innuendo?” Eli asks.

“No. I’m genuinely curious.”

“I’m the knife,” Kent mutters.

“He’s the little spoon.” Eli says.

“Not all the time!” Kent argues, “We take turns!”

“That was almost too easy,” Jeff says.

Kent reaches over Eli to pick up a pair of Dre headphones on the side table—which, Eli had been wondering where they came from—and throws them at Jeff.

“Didn’t you say you were on your way to dinner?” Kent says mulishly.

Jeff catches the headphones against his chest, laughing. “Alright, alright, we’ll go. Let you two get back to cuddling.”

“ _Goodbye_ , Jeff.”

The boys head back into the hall, yelling goodbyes, and its not until several seconds after the door has closed that Kent exhales, slumping back against Eli.

“Well,” he says, kind of dazed. “That wasn’t so bad.”

“Are you okay?” Eli asks.

“I am, yeah. Like. Weirdly okay? I’m not okay with whatever you did to my hair, though.”

Eli coughs on a laugh. “Sorry. I’ll take it out.”

He pushes Kent’s shoulders down a little so his torso is cradled between Eli’s thighs and he can reach the top of Kent’s head.

He glances toward the TV.

“Are you really playing as yourself?”

“Yes,” Kent mutters. “It'd be weird if I played as anyone else. And only Lachland has better stats and they’re bullshit. I could totally take him in real life.”

“I’m sure you could, sweetheart.”

“He’s old,” Kent says, eyes closing as Eli tugs gently on his hair. “And ugly. And my ass is like, a hundred times better than his.”

“It is. I love your ass.”

“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:
> 
> Sorry for the late update, I ended up taking an impromptu road trip home to see my surgeon because things weren't quite healing as expected. One steroid shot later, I'm feeling much better and back in business. 
> 
> The "I'm the knife" bit stolen from that tumblr post that's making the rounds. 
> 
> See you next week! (hopefully on time, goodness).


	36. Chapter 36

Eli spends most of the next forty-eight hours either in the guest bedroom or at the rink, practicing for his competition the following month. He still sleeps in Kent’s bed at night, quiet and warm and willing to cuddle, if not particularly conversational. So Kent just lets Eli do his thing, keeps the volume on the TV low and makes sure to put his dishes in the dishwasher when he’s done with them instead of dumping them in the sink to do later that night, and makes sure not to leave his discarded shoes directly in front of the door, and he hangs his towel on the rod instead of over the edge of the tub, and puts clips on the bags of cat and dog food rather then just rolling down the tops, because he knows all of those things annoy Eli and Kent has fully dedicated himself to being the best possible housemate for the following week. He picks up bath bombs from Lush on the way home from practice and leaves them to smell up the bathroom on the lip of the sink. He adds kale chips to his weekly grocery order.

On the second morning, when he brings Eli coffee in bed after taking Hawke out for a morning walk, Eli squints at him.

“I know what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?” he asks, pushing a brief kiss into Eli’s pillow-creased cheek.

“You’re being all—“ Eli accepts the coffee mug, and then gestures at Kent with it. “Considerate. And perfect. And shirtless.”

“I am,” Kent agrees, “all of those things. Which makes me a really good roommate.”

“Oh really?”

“Really.” He kisses Eli again, a little closer to his mouth this time but not on it since he knows Eli is self-conscious about kissing before he’s brushed his teeth in the morning.

“I’ve got to head out,” Kent continues, “I’m meeting Matts and Rushy to do our video segment about the All Star Game before practice.”

Eli frowns at his mug.

“How’s Tater feeling about being slighted?” he asks.

“Slighted,” Kent says, sighing. “Matts stats are only a little better than his, and he blows some of the other guys who _are_ going out of the water, but—“

He makes a ‘what can you do’ noise. “He’s happy he’ll get a break, though. His shoulder has still been bothering him.”

“Oh. Well, I guess that’s not too bad, then. Still ridiculous he wasn’t selected, though.”

And Kent can’t argue with that.

He stands, retrieving his hoodie from the foot of the bed. Eli stole it the day before and it smells a little like him. It also has a significant amount of both dog and cat hair on it.

Kent loves it.

He pulls it on and tucks his nose into the collar.

“Hey,” he says. “You know what would be cool?”

Eli takes a slow sip of his coffee. “Hmm?”

“If you could come with me to next year’s All Star Game.”

“You think you’re going again next year?”

“Of course. I’m one of the best. And I’m young. I haven’t even hit my peak yet.”

“I’ll block it off in my schedule,” Eli says dryly.

And he know’s Eli’s joking but it’s still kind of a thrill to think about it. To think about introducing more of his world to Eli in a less confrontational stress-ridden environment. When they can fight over how nice a hotel room Kent is allowed to buy Eli and they can hold hands under the table at dinner and sneak kisses in empty hallways.

Or.

Or maybe not next year. But a few years from now, when everyone _knows_ that Eli is his boyfriend. When he can dress Eli in his jersey and kiss him on-camera when Kent wins fastest skater. Or maybe accuracy shooting. Or both. If Eli is there he’ll definitely want to show off.

“Kent?” Eli says.

“Hm?”

“You still with me? You okay?”

Kent cups Eli’s face between his palms, gentle, at first, and then squishes his cheeks together.

Eli makes an outraged noise.

“I’m great,” Kent says. “I love you. I’m going to practice now.”

He kisses Eli’s forehead, then Hawke’s forehead, tries to kiss Kit’s and is rebuffed, and then whistles his way to the car.

It’s going to be a good day.

***

It’s a good day.

Making the video about the All Star Weekend is just as fun as expected.

They start with an interview where Intern Daniel asks them to recount the “hockey all-stars” in their lives growing up—coaches, teammates, older siblings, etc., challenges them to a karaoke battle to see who knows the most of “All Star” by Smashmouth (Matts), and then they all kit up with GoPros and head for the ice where Kent and Matts take trick shots on Rushy before switching to easier shots so Rushy can make intentionally ridiculous saves. The segment ends with Rushy upside-down, his right skate stuck in the net, and all of them laughing so hard it takes two trainers to get Rushy untangled.

Practice, afterward, is good too. Matts and Asher are clicking on the ice again, everyone’s passes are connecting, coach is in high-spirits, and they’re coming off a weeklong break that has everyone excited to play that night.

A few of the guys decide to get lunch together after practice, but Kent begs off, to Tater and Jeff’s vocal displeasure.

“Kenny,” Tater says sadly, “I’m not see you in so long I forget what face looks like under helmet.”

“You’re literally looking at my face right now,” Kent says.

“I _miss_ you,” Tater insists, eyes wide.

“Oh my god, I can do lunch with you tomorrow, I already have lunch plans today.”

Which. He doesn’t have lunch plans, _exactly_. But he does have pre-game nap aspirations that he’s hoping to achieve with the aid of Pretty Bird salads and a zucchini brownie.

Eli gets particularly cuddly after zucchini brownies.

He also makes sex noises while eating them, which is nice too.

“Kent,” Jeff says, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “It’s been too long, buddy. Cancel your other plans and come with us.”

“Tomorrow,” he repeats, shrugging off Jeff so he can pack his bag. He already called in a takeout order on the way to practice, and he needs to pick it up in fifteen minutes.

Jeff makes a sad noise.

“Kenny,” he whines, “How am I supposed to be a good role model for you if we never spend time together?”

“How am I supposed to be successful if you’re my role model?”

“Wow,” Jeff says, feigning hurt. “Okay, asshole.”

“What about babies?” Tater presses, reeling Asher into a hug from behind. “Babies need Captain in their lives. For grow up strong.”

“Asher is the same age as me and the rest of the rookies are older,” Kent points out.

“Uh, I also can’t go to lunch,” Asher says. “My parents are in town for the game tonight so I already said I’d show them around a little. Sorry?”

Tater and Jeff make disgusted noises and finally give up, shepherding the rest of the lunch-goers out of the locker room.

Kent shakes his head, grinning, and heads for the parking garage himself a few minutes later, nodding at Rads who gets on the elevator with him.

“So hey,” Rads says, eyes on his phone. “We need to talk about your boyfriend.”

And Kent’s heart just…stops.

“What?”

“Carrie wants some of Eric’s jam and I was hoping Eli could hook her up with Eric’s phone number or something. She’s been watching his videos and is just convinced that the reason her strawberry cookie things didn’t come out right is because she’s using store-bought jam so either I need to get Eric’s actual recipe for her so she can make the damn stuff herself, or I need to get Eric to send me a few jars. Either way, it’s her birthday next month and that’s the best gift I’ve been able to think of so far because the woman already _has_ everything she wants and gets mad if I spend too much money on her, you know?”

“I’m—“ Kent didn’t really follow any of that, though the last part definitely seemed relatable. “What?”

Rads glances over at him and then pauses, frowning. “You okay kid?”

“You said boyfriend. You know about Eli? About. Uh. Me and Eli?”

“Was I not supposed to?”

“No?”

And that’s—does _everyone_ know? Has he been _that_ obvious?

“I only assumed because it seemed like you were living together when we went to your place for dinner that one time. And it was more like...me and Carrie living together than Coots and Nicky living together, you know?”

“Okay,” Kent says, a little breathless.

He doesn’t know why this is making his chest feel tight. Rads clearly isn’t making a big deal about it—hell, he’s treating Kent like having a boyfriend is totally normal—and several of the guys already know and Kent is planning on coming out to the entire team soon anyway so it shouldn’t—

Except Anika is always telling him that there is no “should” or “shouldn’t” with feelings—you just feel them. It’s not so much the idea of the team knowing that’s freaking him out, even, it’s the idea of not being in control of that knowledge. Of things not happening according to plan. Of people knowing and not saying anything. Maybe even talking about him. Him and Eli. Behind his back. And that’s _stupid_ , because he shouldn’t care. Because he _wants_ to be out, but—

“Hey,” Rads says softly, and Kent looks up to see that he’s holding the elevator door open, dark-eyed and concerned.

Kent walks forward on autopilot.

“Hey,” Rads says again, one hand curling around Kent’s bicep. “I’m sorry I said anything. No one has said anything—I assumed if people knew they were keeping it quiet. But you have to know I’ve got your back. _We’ve_ got your back. The whole team would if you do want to tell people.”

“I’m—I have a plan to tell people,” Kent manages. And it comes out far too soft and cracked and it’s not at all Captain-ly, but Rads is one of his A’s and nearly two decades older than him and such a _dad_ that maybe it’s okay.

Rads pulls Kent to a stop and he realizes he was about to walk past his car.

 “At the end of the season,” Kent says. “I’ve already talked to management. I want—after the last game. Locker clean-out. I’ll tell the team then so they have the summer to, uh, deal.”

“End of the season, huh? You could just kiss him in the locker room when we’re celebrating our Stanley Cup win, then.”

And wouldn’t that be something.

Kent laughs, which was probably Rad’s intention.

“I was thinking a little more subtle than that. But yeah. After a cup would be nice.”

“We’ll have to get it for you, then,” Rads says, like this probably isn’t _his_ last chance for one.

Kent hugs him because he isn’t sure what else to do.

“Thanks,” he says, stepping back and pretending his voice is steady.

“You planning to go public at all, or?”

“Two years. Maybe less. I have a plan worked out with PR.”

“Okay,” he says, steady. “Whenever it happens, anything you need from me—soundbites, charity stuff, beating the shit out of someone. Anything. You let me know.”

And, okay. Rads is a dad but he’s still a bit of a goon.

“Thanks, man. Will do.”

“But only if you get me that jam recipe.”

Kent nearly chokes because the laughter is unexpected this time.

“I’ll text Eric and ask. I’m sure he’ll be willing to share it for such a worthy cause.”

Rads winks at him, sliding down his sunglasses, and turns to backtrack to his car.

Kent unlocks his own vehicle with a long exhalation and goes to pick up lunch with a smile on his face.

When he gets home, he tells Eli about his trying morning, maybe exaggerating his level of anxiety through the Rads conversation, and Eli, eating his zucchini brownie, making the kinds of noises Kent would like to recreate in a different context, suggests that maybe some mutual orgasms and a nap together would make Kent feel better.

So. Yeah. Good day.

The day might be good, but the game that night is…a bit of a shit show.

The Aces win by one in overtime only because Rushy is a brick wall and has possibly taken up sorcery.

And it’s Kent’s fault they had to go into overtime at all.

Because he spent what felt like half the game in the box and it fucked up the lines and put too much pressure on Matts and Tater to be playmakers and—

And clearly dealing with his residual anger issues needs to move to the top of the “To Do” list with Anika.

Because this can’t keep happening.

“This” being his stupid, irrational, jealous rages that result in penalty minutes and the inevitable news stories that talk about Kent Parson’s continued predilection for dirty hockey.

And the worst thing is—he knows it’s stupid to care so much. But he doesn’t know how to _stop_.

So now he’s at home. Icing his neck and staring blankly at the TV and more or less ignoring Eli because he doesn’t know how to tell him whats wrong in a way that doesn’t seem batshit crazy.

He’s three days in to their week-long trial run and he’s trying to convince Eli to stay, not chase him in the opposite direction.

Unfortunately that kind of backfires because, after nearly an hour of silence, Eli moves to sit on the arm of the chair, uncertain.

“Do you want me to go?”

Kent turns to look at him so fast that he undoes whatever progress he’d made with the ice.

“Ow. What? No.”

“You’re just—“ Eli gestures a little helplessly for a moment. “You said. In your list you had of all the reasons you wanted me to move in with you, that it would be nice to have me here after bad games. But I don’t know how to be what you need right now because every time I’ve tried to talk to you ortouch you all I get is these little one-word answers or you shift away from me and—“

“Fuck,” Kent says, because he’s been so wrapped up in not scaring Eli away that he’s scaring Eli away.

“I’m sorry. Can you—here,” he shifts over and Eli tucks himself into Kent’s side, looking relieved.

“You have to tell me what to do,” Eli says. “Because I don’t know how your brain works when you’re like this.”

And yeah. He doesn’t really _want_ Eli to know what his brain is doing right now, but apparently he doesn’t really have a choice.

Kent pulls his phone out of his pocket and opens Instagram, finding Tater’s most recent post.

It’s a screen grab of a Snapchat Eli sent to Tater that reads “ready for the game.” In the snap, Eli’s taking a selfie in the bathroom, looking over his shoulder at the mirror, making a face, and the _Mashkov_ across his shoulders is big and stark and awful. Tater had tagged both Kent and Jeff in his Insta post captioned: _told you I’m favorite._ And it had taken everything in Kent’s admittedly immature body not to throw his phone across the locker room when he saw it because even though he knew Jessica had told Eli to wear other player’s jerseys, even though he knew it didn’t mean anything,it did mean that Eli was somewhere in the stadium wearing a name across his back that wasn’t Kent’s and that—

“I’m a jealous asshole,” Kent says, handing Eli the phone. “I saw this right before we started warmups and I know it’s stupid but. I didn’t like it.”

“What?” Eli says, understandably baffled.

“You. In his jersey.”

“Kent.”

“I know. I know it’s just for avoiding speculation and that you can’t wear mine. But still. I didn’t like it. And it’s not fair. That Tater can make that post on Instagram and laugh about it and not have to worry because it’s not even a big deal for him when that’s literally—I want to be able to do that so bad. It’s like the airport hug all over again, you know? Like. I want to brag about you. That you chose me. That you’re mine. So much it drives me crazy. I want to post pictures like that—of you in my jersey—every damn day. But I can’t. And he can. And that—it’s bullshit. We shouldn’t have to do this. If I wasn’t—we wouldn’t _have_ to do this if I wasn’t Kent Fucking Parson.”

He exhales, surprised at how angry he’s getting.

He thought he got it out of his system in the game.

“I _hate_ hockey,” Kent says, and Eli raises an eyebrow at the vitriol in his tone.

“No you don’t,” he says, gentle, and maybe a little resigned. “You love hockey."

“I love you more,” Kent wants to say, but he’s not sure if it’s true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a tad of angst. 
> 
> And I probably shouldn't say anything but I'm so excited about the next chapter (First part: News Years Party, Second Part: Eli's Competition). Because shit is about to go down and I have been WAITING to reach this point in the story and we're finally here! Ah!
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> The director of my diss committee has approved all but one of my quals reading lists upon second-draft (hurray!) and I'm spending the weekend prepping for my trip to speak at the narrative conference in Montreal in two weeks (also hurray!). It looks like my mom is going to join me since we had so much fun together at my DC conference last year, and I'm really looking forward to sharing that experience with her. Since she's likely reading this: Hi mom! Love you!
> 
> The class I'm teaching is doing Saga (Vol 1) next week and I'm looking forward to their thoughts/reactions. They've also started outlining their final research papers and several have chosen Check Please! as their primary source, despite it being open choice (they can literally choose any comic to work with--even those we haven't read in class). I also, finally, saw Love, Simon today and cried like a baby. The book was good, but the movie really took me by surprise. Anyway, 10/10 highly recommend, see it if you haven't already.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Eli has two seizures in this chapter, one that is expected/prepared for, one that is not.

Getting ready for the masquerade party together is the kind of ridiculous domestic shit that Kent never knew he wanted in life until he had it; sweating in a steamed-up bathroom, helping Eli tie the back of his corset-looking vest thing and trying to convince him to wear the Louboutins.

“It’s an LGBTQ friendly party,” Eli says, sliding his hands down his torso. “But it’s still at a frat house. I’m not sure if they’re _quite_ up to that level of gay.”

“I’ll punch anyone who says anything.”

“My dear sweet goon,” Eli deadpans. “I’ll just end up barefoot after half an hour anyway. I’m not going to fuck up my feet dancing in heels all night. And someone will steal them the minute I take them off.”

“I’ll watch them for you.”

“No you won’t,” Eli says, going up onto his toes to touch their noses, pushing their hips briefly together. “Because you’ll be dancing with me.”

“Oh,” Kent says. “Cool.”

Eli backs up, grinning, to sit on the edge of the tub and pull on a pair of black boots instead. The chunky heels are at odds with the slender line of his black skinny jeans, cinched-in waist, and loose coattails, but it works. The sleeves of his button-down are rolled up to his elbows and the collar is open where it disappears into the top of his vest and Eli has a lot of smooth, lovely, throat on display. There’s already a fading hickey just above his left collarbone, but Kent thinks he should add one to the right side as well before the night is over. Just for equality’s sake.

“So,” Eli says, standing. “Are we ready?”

Kent tugs him over to stand with him in front of the full length mirror and they both take a moment to consider their reflection.

Kent is wearing a black 3-piece Armani suit (purchased with Kent’s first paycheck before he realized that ‘game day suit’ in the NHL didn’t usually necessitate something quite that fancy) paired with a dark purple shirt that matches the purple vest thing that Eli is wearing over his black button-down. And Eli got something called hair chalk—also purple—and mixed it with gel to turn Kent’s usually blonde unkept hair into something sleek and dark and kind of fantastic. Even without the mask, he looks nothing like himself. He does have a nearly full-face matte black mask, though, just to be safe, that leaves only his eyes and mouth visible (perfect for kissing, Eli had said). Eli’s mask, in comparison, is a delicate little lattice of a thing that sits just around his kohl-rimmed eyes. And there’s glitter highlighting Eli’s cheekbones and gloss on his lips and Kent is. More than a little infatuated.

They look good, is the point.

“We look good,” he says.

It’s an understatement.

They get to the party an hour after its official start time, which seems to be right when everyone else is arriving too and Eli introduces Kent as “my boyfriend Hector,” (which, why Hector? He’ll have to ask later) to a handful of people, several of which are from the figure team that he’s actually met before, at least briefly, as himself.

They play a round of beer pong with the Morgans, lose spectacularly, and then there’s a red solo cup in his hand and Eli has his arms around Kent’s neck, holding his own cup with lazy fingers, singing along to the music, and asking if he wants to dance.

Kent does what any responsible 20-year-old would do in this situation and gets drunk. Not too drunk, though. Because he has to remember how to take care of Eli if he has a seizure, which Eli said is likely since things tend to get hot, literally, at parties, and Kent can’t take care of him _right_ if Kent is really drunk. So he gets just drunk enough that everything goes warm and bright and he’s not embarrassed about the fact that his boyfriend is an incredibly sexy, excellent, dancer, and Kent is, by contrast, a flailing potato.

At least Eli doesn’t seem to mind.

So Kent just tries to sway in a somewhat appealing way and touches Eli whenever he’s close enough—moves his hands from Eli’s back to shoulders to hips and pulls them together to grind during the slower songs, puts his mouth against Eli’s ear and tells him just how damn pretty he is.

They retreat to the back porch occasionally when Eli thinks he’s getting too hot, and Kent tries to make sure they’re drinking equal amounts of water and beer but Eli clearly does not have the concerns that Kent does about staying vaguely sober. By 1am he’s adorably lax against Kent and they’re pressed together from chest to thighs, not really even dancing anymore, just taking occasional breaks from making out to sway a little each time the song changes.

Eli has his head resting on Kent’s shoulder, cheek hot where it’s pushed up against his neck, and he’s trying to convince Kent that they should go find an empty room and hook up for the ‘full college party experience,’ when Eli brings one hand up to his head, suddenly out of synch with the subtle rhythm they have going on.

“Well shit,” he says. “I’m getting an aura, we need to—“

Kent scoops him up in a bridal carry because Kent is not only Extra, but currently Tipsy Extra which apparently turns him into a wannabe Byronic hero.

“Why are you like this,” Eli says, resigned.

Kent shoves open the first door in the hallway to find a still-mostly-clothed couple attempting to become less clothed and orders them out, not very nice about it, before setting Eli on the bed. He expects Eli to chastise him for his rudeness, but Eli just sort of sighs, rolling onto his side, and says something about Kent’s “sexy captain voice.”

“My what?” Kent asks, but Eli has already gone stiff.

He unties and pulls off Eli’s mask, and then stands back, taking off his own mask, setting them both aside on a nightstand that is worryingly cluttered with condoms.

Even after the talk Eli gave him, even after the youtube videos Eli made him watch—it’s still scary when Eli starts jerking.

He fumbles his phone out of his pocket, drops it, and then just counts in his head as he crouches to retrieve it, watching as the quaking in Eli’s limbs recedes to tremors, as the tremors finally recede to stillness at 83 seconds.

It feels like a lot longer than 83 seconds.

Kent kneels beside the bed and checks Eli’s pulse and his breathing just like they practiced and that all seems fine so then he lays down facing him, and waits.

Twenty-three seconds later, Eli opens his eyes.

He blinks slowly at Kent.

“Good news,” Eli says. “I didn’t piss whoever’s bed this is.”

“That is good news,” Kent agrees. “How do you feel?”

“Weird. I’ve never done this drunk before.”

“You want to sit up?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay. Can I touch you?”

“Please.”

Kent scootches forward, wrapping his arms around Eli’s waist and pushing his face, maybe a little harder than needed, against the bare skin of his upper-chest. Eli’s heartbeat is a conciliatory thing—loud and regular beneath his ear.

“Hey,” Eli says, bringing his hands up to slide into Kent’s hair. “I’m fine.”

“I know.”

“Are _you_ okay? You’re—” Eli laughs and it sounds self-conscious. “Not having any second thoughts?”

_Second thoughts?_

“What? _No._ ”

“I’m just saying. I would understand if you were freaked out. It’s okay.”

“I want to marry you,” Kent says, and that is…not at all what he meant to say.

Shit.

“And I know I’m not supposed to tell you. Because. It’s way too soon and I’m still pretty fucked up and you’re eighteen and barely know who you are yet much less what you want from someone else but. I want to be what you want. So this is—There are no second thoughts, with us. Okay?”

Eli’s eyes are wide when Kent looks up at him.

“Oh,” he says, sounding a little gut-punched. “Really?”

“Yeah,” And Kent is committed now, so he might as well, just—

“I want the whole, like, everything, with you. Joint christmas cards and buying a house together and stupid inside jokes. And Kids. Maybe. Someday. Mite hockey. Or figure skating. Or nothing on the ice at all. Maybe like, chess, or something. Just. Whatever they want. To be happy. I think we’d be really happy. You make me happy.”

“You’re a little drunk right now,” Eli says, and his voice is still funny.

“I am,” Kent agrees. “But it’s true. I’m just saying whats in my head _all the time_ when I look at you.”

And wow. Maybe he’s a little more than tipsy. He should probably drink some water.

Eli doesn’t say anything for several seconds, twisting the hair at the back of Kent’s neck into tiny curls around his fingers. “That’s a lot, Kenny. _I’m_ a lot. To deal with. And I don’t think you realize how much yet but I’m—I think I want all of that too, someday. If you do.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

“We should probably talk about this again when we’re sober,” Eli says dryly.

“Probably.”

“And after we’ve been together for, uh. Longer.”

“Yeah,” Kent agrees, thinking about his game schedule. “Maybe in April?”

“April,” Eli repeats. “Okay?”

“Because we’ll need to figure out our summer plans around then anyway. So if we’re going to be having a serious conversation we can just, have this one too and get it all out of the way at once.”

“Summer plans,” Eli repeats.

“Well yeah. I was planning to stay in Vegas, but if I can get some rink time in Atlanta I could come visit you at home for a couple weeks in June, maybe. And I’d like to bring you with me on whatever post-season vacation I take. But I know you’ll want to argue about me about spending money like that before you’ll even give any input on where we go, so.”

“Okay,” Eli says, “first of all—“

“Shhh,” Kent interrupts. “We’ll talk about it in April.”

Eli whacks him gently on the head, trying not to laugh.

Kent kisses the dip between Eli’s collarbones.

“Fine,” Eli concedes. “April.”

He laughs again, dragging is fingers down the side of Kent’s neck. “We’re getting purple from your hair all over this poor kid’s bedspread.”

“I imagine hair chalk is the least problematic substance on these sheets,” Kent says.

Eli makes a face. “I think I’m feeling up to leaving, now.”

“Yeah? You wanna go home?”

“Mmm,” he agrees. “Home. Shower. Clean sheets.” He pauses, obviously considering their pre-nap activities earlier that day. “Well. Moderately clean sheets.”

“Home, then,” Kent agrees, sitting up.

And he likes the way that sounds.

***

They’ve been living together for two weeks and three days when Eli points out over breakfast the fact that they’ve been living together for two weeks and three days.

“Has it been that long?” Kent asks, like he hasn’t been gleefully keeping track. “I guess time flies when you’re cohabiting with someone perfectly suited to you.”

“Oh really?”

“Really. More coffee?”

Eli doesn’t say anything else and Kent is frankly baffled that worked.

He leaves the next day for Texas feeling particularly optimistic. The Aces play the Stars in Dallas on Friday and he’s staying overnight to see Eli compete in Plano on Saturday. Eli is flying into Dallas with his team on Friday, but they got permission from his coach for Kent to fly back home with Eli’s team on Sunday night.  
He wasn’t able to convince Eli to let him upgrade their seats this time, but it’s a short flight and they’ll be in bulkhead with Hawke anyway.

Kent can’t wait.

The Aces win handily against the Stars, and since it’s an early afternoon game, the team is going straight from the locker room to the plane to fly home, so they’ll have two nights back in Vegas before they leave again for Anaheim.

“Well,” Kent says to the room at large, zipping his duffle shut, hair still wet from the shower. “I’m headed back to the hotel. Nice work out there tonight, guys, I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Actually,” Jeff says casually beside him. “ You’ll see some of us tomorrow.”

Kent pauses, lifting the strap of his bag over his head. “What?”

“We got coach to make tomorrow’s practice optional,” Asher says from his stall, grinning. “So we can stay and watch Eli compete!”

“Surprise!” Tater says, and then, more seriously. “We making signs, yes? Like at airport. But better. More big. More glitter.”

“I—sure? Who all is staying?”

“Me,” Jeff, Tater, Asher, and Rushy all say.

“And Nicky and Matts,” Asher says, pointing toward the shower.

Which.

Matts?

Interesting.

“Oh and Rads,” Asher adds. “Because Carrie and the kids are with her parents in Vermont this weekend anyway. And Coots was going to but there was a thing with his girlfriend, so.”

“Sorry!” Coots yells from across the room.

“You guys,” Kent says. “This is. Thank you.”

“Not doing it for you, bro,” Jeff says, “We just wanna see Eli kick some ass.”

“Fair.” he agrees.

They all end up eating dinner together at the hotel that night, then go on a craft-supplies shopping spree first thing the following morning. They shove several of the tables in the dining area together at their complimentary continental breakfast and make signs while trying and mostly failing to keep glitter out of their food.

They get a lot of dirty looks from waitstaff.

Kent makes sure to leave a big tip.

At 12:30am they share two Ubers to get to the Dallas Stars Plano facility, which is hosting the regional competition, and they find a place mid-way up in the stands to sprawl out with their various smuggled-in snacks. They’re a lot bigger and a lot louder than most of the other people in the stands and within thirty minutes they attract a fan—the younger brother of a competitor—who is delighted to find professional hockey players (even if they beat his team last night, he tells them somberly) at a figure-skating competition.

“For sure! Figure skating is the shit,” Asher says earnestly.

Jeff sighs and the kid giggles behind his hand.

“Dude. He’s like, eight,” Matts advises, soto-voice.

“Oh,” Asher says. “Right. I just mean. Figure skating is really cool? Our friend Eli is competing today so we came to cheer him on.”

“Cool,” the kid says, and then asks if Rushy will share his Doritos.

He’s handing them over, a little grudgingly, when the kid’s dad comes over, apologetic, to drag him away. They offer to take a picture with him before he goes, which counteracts a looming tantrum, and then Eli’s name is being announced over the PA system and they all have to stand in their seats and wave their signs and scream really loud.

They attract a few more dirty looks.

Eli glances briefly at them, smiling, but then settles into his beginning stance, serious, and Kent hushes the other guys, pulling them back down to sit as the music starts.

And god, Eli is beautiful on the ice.

Like. That’s _his_ boyfriend.

How _lucky_ is he?

Kent has watched Eli do this routine dozens of times. Heard the music so often that it sneaks into his dreams sometimes.

So he notices when things start to go wrong.

He notices before anyone else around him does; is standing and shoving his way to the aisle, before the first shocked gasps of onlookers start.

It starts with the barking.

About 2/3 of the way through Eli’s routine—from somewhere off the ice, just down the tunnel, Hawke starts barking. And Hawke doesn’t bark when her vest is on. Ever.

It’s barely audible underneath the music coming through the PA system, where the climax of the song is building—when Eli is spinning, tight and perfect and so fast he’s little more than a blur, in the middle of the ice. If not for the fact that Kent is intimately familiar with both the music, and Hawke, he might dismiss it.

He doesn’t.

And then Eli wobbles in his transition from sit spin to layback spin and Kent may not know much about figure skating but he knows quite a bit about _Eli’s_ figure skating and he’s never once had an issue with that transition. The choreography doesn’t call for his hands to move up to his head, either, and he totally skips the fancy footwork he’s supposed to do before readying for his final jump—and that’s when Kent stands, not waiting for the others to move their legs, not even able to articulate why he needs to get out, not knowing _where to go_ but only that he needs to.

Jeff is yelling his name, trying to follow him, when the lady in front of him with the massive purse blocking his way lets out a soft, shocked, noise.

Eli has stumbled to a stop and is hunched over, one hand on his head, the other braced on his upper thigh.

He straightens, clearly off-balance, and tries to skate for the exit, where his coach is moving forward to help him but before he can get there Eli just—goes rigid.

And Kent knows exactly what’s about to happen but there’s nothing he can do to stop it—so he just watches as Eli falls, completely slack, like a puppet whos strings have suddenly been cut.

His head hits the ice.

It bounces.

His _head._

Kent steps on the woman’s purse.

When he finally shoves his way into the aisle, trying to watch where he’s going and what’s happening on the ice at the same time, Eli’s coach has scooped him up and is carrying him down the tunnel yelling something at the guy in a medical smock beside him and Kent gets a final glimpse of Eli’s skates jerking over the coaches arm and then they’re gone.

The music for Eli’s routine is still playing.

He grabs the jacket sleeve of the first security guard he can find, maybe a little too rough, and points wildly toward the ice.

“How do I get down there? That’s my—my best friend. He’s having a seizure and I need to get to him. Can you—“

“I’m sorry,” he says, “If you don’t have a badge for staff or competitors you’re not allowed access—“

“Hey,” Jeff says, and oh, thank God, Jeff is here.

“Can you at least tell us where they’re going to take him?”Jeff asks. “Which hospital?”

_“_ Uh.”

The security guard’s eyes have gone a little wide and Kent glances behind him to find the rest of the guys have followed Jeff and are now blocking the aisle.

Faced with a good portion of the Aces roster, even if the majority of them are covered in glitter, the security guard takes a step back.

“Yeah,” he says, “They usually send people to Texas Presbyterian.”

Jeff’s hand is on his shoulder before Kent can even turn to look at him.

“I’m getting us an Uber now, let’s go.”

They go.

The six minutes they have to wait on the curb are possibly the longest six minutes of Kent’s life.  
And then there’s traffic.

Kent sits in the back seat of the Uber sandwiched between Jeff and Rads with Tater in the front seat anxiously glancing back at him every few seconds and he can’t stop pressing the home button on his phone, not really computing how abruptly the morning has gone from euphoric to disastrous. He should be able to call someone. But he doesn’t know _anyone’s_ numbers. Not Eli’s coach or the Morgans or—anyone. And he doesn’t want to call Eli’s mom without knowing if Eli is okay because if she hasn’t been contacted yet he doesn’t want to scare her, but—

 They get to the hospital only a few seconds before Asher, Matts, Rushy and Nicky do in their own Uber and they all enter the emergency room doors together—causing something of a hubbub when one of the intake nurses recognizes them.

“Oh my god,” he says. “You’re Kent Parson. And Justin Matthews. And Alexei Mashkov. And—

“Yes, hi, we know who we are,” Jeff interrupts and it’s probably the most rude thing Kent has ever heard Jeff say to someone off the ice.

“Our friend Eli just had a seizure at the Star Center down the street and he was taken here. Elijah Rodriguez. Can you tell us—

“Kent!”

Kent spins to see one of the Morgans—tall Morgan—jogging toward him, a too-big windbreaker over her velvet skating uniform. Her eye makeup is smeared.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t have your number or I would have called—“

“It’s fine. Is he okay? Have you seen him? Where’s Hawke?”

“I don’t know. They won’t tell us anything because we’re not family. Coach rode with him in the ambulance and he had Hawke but he’s not answering his phone and I don’t know—“

“Okay. Okay, did Eli wake up? After his seizure? Did you see him before they took him here?”

“I don’t know. I mean, yes, I saw him, but it was really fast and they had him on one of those board things with a neck brace and stuff while they were putting him in the ambulance. He wasn’t moving, though, once he stopped seizing. I didn’t see his eyes open.” Her voice goes quiet. “His head was bleeding a lot.”

“Fuck. Okay.” They turn back to the nurse at the front desk.

“Elijah Rodriguez,” he says again. “Can you tell us what’s happening with him?”

The nurse pauses, glancing at his coworker, and then at the waiting room full of hockey players and interested onlookers.

Apparently they’re causing a bit of a scene.

“Are any of you family?” the nurse asks.

“No, but his family is in _Georgia_ , please, can you just—“

“I’m sorry, sir.”

And he knows he’s starting to get a little hysterical; probably more upset than he should be if he was just a concerned friend but he’s _not_ just a concerned friend.

“Can’t you just tell us—“

“I’m sorry, if you’re not family—“

Kent wants to hit him with something

Like his fist, maybe.

“Look,” the guy says, maybe realizing this. “Our system hasn’t even updated yet since he was just admitted. I couldn’t give you much information even if you _were_ family. I don’t even have a room number.”

“So what are we supposed to do, just _sit_ here?” Jeff asks, which is a nicer version of what Kent was going to say.

“Yes. Sorry.”

“I’ll try Coach again,” Morgan says, and puts her phone to her ear.

Tater tugs on his arm.

They go sit.

For an _hour._

If the six minutes waiting for the car had been interminable, an hour in a plastic hospital chair is a new form of purgatory. Kent has never felt so useless in his whole goddamn life.

And then he hears the distinct noise of Hawke’s toenails on linoleum.

“Coach,” Morgan says, as a man in a VU sweater comes through the internal double doors. He’s pale and harried-looking and probably the best thing Kent has seen all day.

“Is he okay?” Kent asks, standing, and the next thing he knows, Hawke has pulled her leash out of the man’s hands and is crashing into Kent’s shins. He goes to his knees automatically, folding around her, attention still on Eli’s coach.

If he’s surprised to see most of the Ace’s roster in attendance, he doesn’t show it.

“Eli is in intensive care,” he says. “I’ve called his mother and she’s on the next flight out.”

“Intensive care,” Kent repeats. “Why? What does that mean?”

“He has a concussion. Grade 3. From hitting his head on the ice. And his brain is swelling. It’s not bad enough yet that they think they need to intervene surgically but since he already has a traumatic brain injury, complications are more likely. They’re putting him in an induced coma and they’ll monitor his progress for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. And I know 'coma' sounds scary but it's really more of a precautionary measure. He won't need a ventilator and they’re hoping they can wake him up once—“

And the man is still talking, saying more things about shunts and decompression but Kent doesn’t hear them.

Because he’s stuck on the word _coma._ Which, yes, is pretty damn scary.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Hawke starts licking his face.

“Where is he? Will they let us see him?” he interrupts, scrubbing one arm across his eyes. “Will they let _you_ back in? You were with him before, right?”

“He’s up on the fourth floor. Room 423. But no. Once they moved him to the ICU they made me leave since I wasn’t family. His mom should be here by 2am, but until then—“

And no.

_No._

Eli is not going to be in a fucking _coma,_ with his _brain swelling,_ _alone._ Not for ten more hours. Not for ten more _minutes_.

He gathers Hawke’s leash in his hand with studied calm, looping it around his chest the way he’s seen Eli do it a thousand times before, and walks back to the nurses’ station.

He lays both palms flat on the counter.

“Elijah Rodriguez. Room 423. I need to see him. You can call his mother—she’s his primary emergency medical contact. She can’t be here until tomorrow but she’ll tell you to let me stay with him until then. Please.”

“I’m sorry,” the guy says, and Kent is getting really tired of hearing that phrase.

“If you’re not family—“

“Please,” he repeats and it sounds a little bit like a sob, probably because it is one. “ _Please_.”

Kent realizes that if he doesn’t get it together he’s going to out himself. In front of a waiting room full of people; at least one of which has their phone in front of their face and is probably recording Kent Parson’s glorious emergency room breakdown for posterity.

_Good_ , he thinks, a little deliriously. _Fuck it. Then it would be done. All of it. All of the hiding and the anxiety. And he and Eli could just be together_ — _Eli. Who he loves. Who is somewhere in the hospital right now_ alone _in a goddamn_ coma _._ His _Eli._

And the realization is both terrible and a little cathartic:

Eli is worth it.

Eli is worth risking hockey.

Not at some indistinct time in the future, but now.

Right now.

“He’s my boyfriend,” Kent says. “Please, he’s my boyfriend, you have to let me see him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D
> 
> Kent 110% Parson. The boy has a lot of feelings and poor impulse control.
> 
> Captains Log:  
> See why I was excited about this chapter?? Things are about to get interesting. Next chapter will be an angst-fest, but after that, it will be (mostly) smooth sailing until the end. So don't worry about Eli too much! Until this point, Kent hasn't really had to contend with the realities of Eli's disability and Eli is still afraid that he's going to scare Kent off. This will be good for both of them...eventually.
> 
> In Real Life news, I'm doing Saga this week with my students and, on the whole, they really seem to like it. It will definitely stick around on the syllabus next year. One of them dubbed the first page of chpt 1 vol 1 "the best way to start a comic ever," and I can't say I disagree. I also made a Kahoot for their review/extra credit opportunity and their competitive streaks were in full-force today while playing it, which, conveniently, was when my director decided to drop in for an audit. I'm pretty sure it was a good thing--especially since the Kahoot platform is a fun new way of incorporating tech into the classroom that I don't think other profs are using, but we'll see what he says once he writes up my audit.
> 
> See you next week! (I'll probably be posting the chapter on Wednesday morning before I get on my plane, because I'm not sure what my schedule will be like in terms of free time on Wed/Thurs with the conference--for updates on how awesome Montreal is, hit me up on Tumblr, I'm sure I'll document the experience).


	38. Chapter 38

Kent’s phone starts ringing in his pocket forty-five minutes later, when he’s got his forehead resting on the back of Eli’s slack hand, praying for the first time in years and probably doing a really terrible job of it.

It’s Jessica.

“What,” he says.

And the way she says his name tells him everything he needs to know.

“How’s Eli?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” he says. “He’s—“

_Asleep_ is too gentle but he can’t make himself say the word _coma_ either.

“In the ICU,” he finishes. “Sedated.”

Hawke, stretched out over Eli’s feet at the foot of the bed, picks her head up to look at him.

“Is there anything we can do?” she asks. “I can get the head of our medical team on the phone for you if you need recommendations for a specialist or—“

“No,” Kent says. “Or. I don’t think so. His mom should know but she won’t get here until early tomorrow.”

“Okay. Kent, I need to talk to you about—“

“They posted the video,” he says, watching Eli’s chest move. “The person in the waiting room.”

“Yes,” Jessica agrees. “On Instagram. And tagged you. We’re trying to get it taken down, but—“

Kent isn't naive enough to think that will matter.

He considers apologizing but can’t really bring himself to do that because he’s not sorry.

It worked.

He’s holding Eli’s hand right now and he can’t be sorry for that.

“You have to tell us how you want to proceed here,” Jessica says quietly. “We had a couple different contingency plans that we discussed with you last month, but we didn’t actually expect to need any of them so soon. Do you know—“

“I don’t care,” Kent says, and he doesn’t.

The fact that he was ever so worried about coming out, like that was some big terrible life-altering thing, seems trite and ridiculous when Eli is so, so, still, in front of him, surrounded by blinking monitors and the quiet, anxious, hum of hospital noise outside the door.

“We can give you some time to think,” she says, “I understand you’re more focused on Eli right now than dealing with media, but if we can get ahead of the story—“

“I don’t care,” he repeats.

One of the numbers on the IV stand monitor ticks up, but Kent doesn’t know what it means.

He needs to google it.

“I have to go.”

“Alright,” Jessica sighs. “How about I call you again tomorrow morning once you’ve had some time?”

“Okay,” Kent agrees, knowing he has no intention of answering when she does. “Tell coach I’m not leaving until Eli wakes up.”

She pauses.

“Do you have an estimate on when that will be?” she asks.

“No. Hopefully within 48 hours.”

“You’ll miss the Anaheim game if you don’t fly out by tomorrow afternoon,” she says, like maybe he’s forgotten. Like the very concept of him being a healthy scratch is anathema. Which, maybe that’s fair. He’s never missed a game for any reason other than injury. Hell, he _hasn’t_ missed plenty of games he _should_ have because of an injury.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I will.”

She doesn’t say anything for several seconds.

“Okay. I’ll let him know.”

***

By midnight, Kent knows what all of the numbers on all of the monitors mean. He’s called Eric to tell him what little he knew, talked briefly to Jeff to update the guys and have them locate and retrieve Eli’s backpack—left at the Star Center—so Kent could feed Hawke, and then, after several false starts, because _what if something happened while he was gone?_ Kent took Hawke for a quick bathroom break outside. Then he used Eli’s laptop to start researching traumatic brain injuries which probably hasn’t helped his anxiety level.

Jack calls just before 1am.

Kent doesn’t want to answer.

He doesn’t know if he can _handle_ answering, right now. Especially if Jack is angry. But considering that Kent has potentially just outed Jack as well, he figures he owes it to him.

“Hey,” he says, uncertain.

“Hey, Kenny.”

And no. Jack isn’t angry. That’s the voice from the good memories Kent has with Jack. Well, not the _good_ good memories. The good memories were winning games, crashing into each other for a celly, going for runs together in the early mornings and doing homework on the bus and secret week-long summer vacations to the cabin at the lake. But there were other memories, too. There were good/bad memories. When his birthday would pass without a call from his mom, or he couldn’t get the puck to sit on the goddamn ice and he went five games without a point, or when his billet-family’s dog, who’d taken to sleeping in Kent’s bed, was hit by a car and he didn’t find out until hours later, over the phone in a hotel room after a game that they’d _lost_.

That’s the voice Jack would use when he didn't know how to help but wanted to. When he didn’t have words so he’d just say Kent’s name, like asking for permission, and then awkwardly crowd into Kent’s space and tuck their gangly teenaged bodies together, like maybe if Jack smothered Kent with empathy, things would be better. Like maybe he could share his demons for a while. And it did, help. Sometimes. When Kent would let him.

But Jack isn’t here right now and Kent feels like he’s drowning a little.

“Jack,” he says, closing his gritty eyes.

“Are you okay?” Jack says.

And that’s the first time anyone has asked him that.

“I’m fine. Eli is—“

“Kenny. Hey.”

“No,” Kent says, after a stubborn pause. And he’s cried more today than he has the rest of his adult life combined, so why not start again? “I’m not fucking okay.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, quiet. “I guess that was a stupid question. What can I do?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing—we just have to wait.”

“You were never any good at that.”

Kent laughs wetly. “Asshole.”

“Bittle wanted to fly there tonight but I convinced him to wait since they wouldn’t let him see Eli right now anyway. Would it help _you_ , though, if we came?”

Kent rubs his palm into one eye.

“ _We_?”

“Oh. Well I wouldn’t want Bitty to go alone. He’s pretty upset. And you—“ Jack clears his throat. “I’m worried about you too.”

“Don’t you have games?” Kent asks, because he’s not anywhere near ready to deal with the latter part of that.

“Some things are more important than hockey,” Jack says.

“Yeah,” Kent agrees, looking at Eli.

“So?”

“I mean. Come if you want? But coming _now_ wouldn’t help Eli or me. I’m not leaving his room until he wakes up, except to walk Hawke, so. Y'all would be in the waiting room alone.”

“Y’all, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“Okay. I figured. And, from what Bitty has told me, once he does wake up, they’ll send him home pretty soon afterward.”

“If there aren’t complications,” Kent says darkly.

“Right.”

Neither of them say anything for several seconds.

“Okay,” Jack says finally. “Well. I wanted to call. I’ll let you go, though.You should probably try to sleep some, eh?”

“Eh,” he agrees, because apparently old habits die hard. “Wait. You haven’t said anything about—have you been online?”

“Of course. Bitty and Holster have a whole system set up with like, a spreadsheet, tracking news sources and stuff. The rest of the boys are taking turns being, uh, I think Shitty called them “trolls”? In the comment sections of articles?”

“Right.”

“Pretty dramatic,” Jack says. “That video. You never could do anything by halves.”

“I’m sorry, what was that, Mr. Pot?”

Jack huffs. “Fair.”

“So,” Kent says, still uncertain despite everything. “You’re not—I thought you called because of the whole…If I’m out people might start asking questions about you, thing, and—“

“No,” Jack interrupts, surprisingly sharp. “I called for _you_. And Eli. I figured you didn’t care about the rest of it right now.”

“No,” Kent agrees. “I really don’t.”

***

He doesn’t know who is more aggressive with their hug when Alicia gets there, just after 2am, but her presence is such a relief that he finally feels like he can breathe again.

She demands to speak with whatever doctor is on-call and is impressively calm, collected, and articulate, through a list of questions and words that Kent only occasionally recognizes from his couple of hours of reading. Once the doctor leaves, though, she wraps Kent up in another hug and proceeds to cry on him.

It’s fine.

Neither of them sleep much that night.

Or the next day.

They take turns sitting with Eli, laying on the rollaway bed the nurses set up in the corner, and walking Hawke.

Kent mostly ignores his phone.

They don’t turn on the TV and Kent doesn’t check any of his social media accounts.

They wait.

And then, after 36 hours, the doctor says it’s safe to wake Eli up and move him out of the ICU and they let out a collective sigh of relief.

Alicia warns him that Eli probably won’t be coherent at first, but it’s still kind of a shock when he opens his eyes the first time, says a string of completely unrelated words, and then goes right back to sleep again.

She seems confident after talking to the doctors and seeing Eli’s scans that he’s going to be just fine, but Kent is thinking about all the potential complications the doctor had mentioned. Like issues with speech and motor function. Like amnesia.

He might do some more, ultimately unhelpful, research in that regard through four more rounds of Eli waking briefly, sometimes unresponsive, sometimes making no sense, before blinking his way slowly back to sleep.

The sixth time he wakes up, Alicia isn’t there and Kent is exhausted and expecting more of the same.

“Hey,” he says, tiredly.

“Hey,” Eli says, sounding perfectly rational. “You’re really cute.”

Kent sits up from where he’s slouched over.

“Oh my god,” Kent says. “Do you know who I am? Do you remember me?

Eli squints at him. A little judgmentally, honestly.

“Yes?”

Kent can’t decide if he wants to laugh or cry.

“Okay. That’s—that’s good. I was worried that maybe you had like, amnesia or something.”

“Well that’s dumb,” Eli says, slurring his S’s a little. “You’d be cute whether I remembered your stupid face or not. I do, though. So don’t worry about that. Why are you worried about that?”

Eli’s runs his tongue around his mouth, squinting a little harder.

“Did I hit my head?”

Kent makes a pathetic noise and just sort of buries his face in Eli’s wrist because Eli is talking and remembers him and is moving all of his fingers and his toes and he’s _okay_.

“Hey,” Eli says, sounding a little alarmed. “Hey, no. Don’t cry. I love you.”

And that really doesn’t help on the emotions front.

“Yeah,” Kent says. “Yeah, you hit your head. Is—can I hug you? How do you feel? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I think I’m on a lot of drugs,” Eli says. “I can’t really feel anything. But yes, you should hug me. Actually. You should just. Come up here.”

Kent does, gladly.

“What happened?” Eli asks once they’ve got him tucked comfortably under Kent’s arm, leaning into his chest. Kent cups his hand around Eli’s elbow, sneaking his fingers up the sleeve of Eli’s gown to pet the soft skin of his inner bicep.

Kent opens his mouth and then closes it, remembering what the doctor had said.

“What do you remember?”

Eli considers this for a minute.

“Um. Skating. Competition. I was—Hawke was barking during my routine. Wait. Where’s Hawke?”

“With your mom.”

He startles, glancing around. “Mama is here?”

“Yeah. I got her a room at the hotel so she could have a shower and change. She took Hawke with her to get some more food because we ran out. They’ll be back soon. Can you tell me what you remember?”

“Hawke alerted right before it was my turn.” He bites his lip. “I thought I had time to finish but I don’t—”

He brings one hand up, searching, until he finds the line of stitches on his temple. “Shit. I had a seizure on the ice, didn’t I?”

“Little bit, yeah.”

“I hit my head.”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

He exhales, slow. “How long did they have to keep me sedated? Were there complications?” his hand goes back up to head, “Did they have to—?”

“Hey, easy,” Kent says. “They kept you asleep for 38 hours and you’ve been in and out for another six or so since then. They moved you out of ICU last night. It’s Tuesday morning. There weren’t any complications and they didn’t have to do anything surgical, but you do have a serious concussion, um, grade 3? So there might be—“

“Lasting unknown effects,” Eli finishes, expression pinched. “Because I already had _one_ traumatic brain injury so this is just icing on the shit cake.”

“Not exactly how I would have characterized it. But yeah,” Kent agrees. “Do you want me to get the doctor?Or call your mom? You’ve been awake a couple times since they first woke you up, but this is the first time you’ve been coherent and didn’t immediately fall back asleep.”

“No,” Eli says. “I actually do kinda just want to sleep some more. Can I sleep some more?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Gunna sleep on you,” he asserts, making himself comfortable.

“Okay.”

“Don’t leave.”

“I won’t.”

***

Eli wakes up again two hours later, submits to being cried on by his mother and this time they do call the doctor who walks Eli through his tests and treatment plan and recovery time and Kent leaves after he’s got the gist of things to take Hawke for a walk around the grounds and give Eli and his mom some privacy.

Except within a minute of exiting the south lobby doors, before Hawke can even find a nice tree to pee on, someone is taking his picture.

Several someones, actually, jogging from around the corner where they must have been initially waiting at the north entrance, holding telescoping lens cameras and yelling his name.

And shit.

He’d almost forgotten about the real world.

Or maybe Eli is the real world and all of this is just bullshit.

He turns and walks right back inside, where a security guard is already moving in front of him to block the photogs from following.

“Excuse me,” he says to the woman at the front desk. “There’s a garden with benches and a grassy section I can see from the window of my—“ he almost censors himself but realizes he doesn’t have to. “From my boyfriend’s room. Can you tell me how to get there?”

“Are you Kent Parson?” she says, glancing at the people outside.

“I am,” he agrees, strangely calm.

“Why don’t I have someone from security escort you there, just to be safe?”

“I’d appreciate that.”

He returns to Eli’s room forty-five minutes later to find him alone, sitting up in bed, but staring at the wall blank-eyed and hollow and Kent has a sudden, visceral, memory of the way Jack looked the one time he’d allowed Kent to see him in the hospital after his overdose, moments before he cut Kent out of his life completely.

Kent nearly has a panic attack right there in the doorway.

“Hey, no,” he says, “what’s wrong? What’s happened?”

He kicks off his shoes and climbs back into the bed, wraps himself around Eli and just sort of clings, a little desperate, a little afraid of his answer.

“I’m done,” Eli says, and his voice is all wrong. “With skating. I can’t—he said it’ll be three months before I can get on the ice again and I can’t do anything that will put me at risk for another fall for at least six but—”

And oh.

Oh _no_.

Kent feels like someone has punched him in the stomach.

“He says even after that, competitive skating is—its too big a risk. That I was lucky this time.”

And, yeah.

Kent can see that.

“But I can’t—“ he stops. Starts again. “I was supposed to be like, this inspirational story,” Eli says, voice brittle, “The olympic hopeful who came back against all odds. That’s what got me through my recovery the first time. The idea that this was all just—some sort of additional thing I would add to my underdog story once I was successful: the gay, black kid from Georgia who nearly died in a car accident—who persevered and won medals and, sure, maybe he never realized his olympic dreams, but I was still supposed to—to—“he exhales, shuddery and a little wild.

“But that’s not going to happen. Because I was too impatient and I didn’t want to miss my chance at a stupid medal and I didn’t listen to Hawke who my parents spent half their fucking retirement fund on who was _literally_ trained to make sure something like this didn’t happen. And now—“

He can hear Eli trying to hold back tears and that’s probably even worse than if he was actually crying.

“Hey,” Kent says, “it’s okay.”

Except it’s not.

What a stupid thing to say.

“It was one competition,” Eli says. “I should have listened to Hawke. Why didn’t I just—

“No,” Kent says. “You can’t do that. You’ll drive yourself crazy if you do that.”

“Kent, _I can’t skate anymore_ ,” Eli says. Well, sobs more than says, really.“I _am going crazy_.”

And Kent had never really understood when people said they wished they could take someones’ pain for them. To feel it instead. He’d never actually believed anyone could be that level of altruistic.

But he gets it now. And he’d do it, too.

 He’d do anything to make the expression on Eli’s face go away.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because it’s true and he doesn’t know what else to say. “I’m so sorry.”

Eli folds himself into Kent’s chest, face damp, breath humid against his throat.

“I yelled at my mom,” he says. “I was angry and I took it out on her and—“

“Do you want me to go find her?” he asks, but Eli’s fingers hook into the fabric of his shirt, pulling it taught against his back.

“No. Please stay.”

And the last 48 hours really have been an exercise in showing Kent the limits of his own humanity. Because, once again, he’s powerless here. He’s gotten used to being able to _fix_ things with hard work or money or his name. But he can’t. Not here. And he doesn’t know what to do.

“What can I do?” he asks, mouth against the top of Eli’s head, more than a little desperate. “How can I help you?

Eli shakes and the whole world shakes with him.

“I don’t know,” Eli says, and that might make it even worse. “I don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I'm sorry. But like I said, next chapter the up-swing starts and things don't ever get this angsty again. Promise.
> 
>  
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> I'm in Montreal! Settled in my Airbnb and I just figured out how the wifi works. So I could turn on the Pens game while I eat some dinner (sorry Flyers fans, sucks to suck). Wish me luck at my talk tomorrow afternoon and I'm sure once the stress of that is over I'll start updating Tumblr again with pics/stories.


	39. Chapter 39

Eli wakes up feeling strangely okay.

Well. Not _okay_. They’re clearly weaning him off the pain meds and his head feels like someone took a pickaxe to it. His vision is kind of blurry and the fact that he cried so hard it made him nauseous earlier probably isn’t helping things.

But his puffy, aching, face is pushed into Kent’s neck, who’s warm and solid and still has one sleep-slack arm wrapped around Eli’s back. And he kind of smells a little, probably because he hasn’t showered in a while, but Kent is making the little whistle-y breathing noises he always makes when he sleeps on his back and the familiarity is nice.

Eli still feels sort of hollow. But not—not the way he had earlier, the way it’d felt when the doctor said he shouldn’t skate competitively anymore. Because the key word there is _competitively._

And he doesn’t even _like_ competing.

He knows some people live for it, for the drama and the adrenaline and the prestige, but he’s never been one of them. Sure, it feels good to win—especially when people automatically make assumptions about him because of the way he looks, because of the state of his skates or the fact that he reuses uniforms until they fall apart—but it feels just as good to land a new trick in practice, to hit up free-skate at his home-town rink, show off a little, and coerce wobbly kids away from the boards. Hell, helping out at the Breaking the Ice event with the Aces was probably the most _fun_ he’d had while skating in months. So no. He won’t miss competition. Competition is the worst part of skating. It’s stressful and harrowing and, yeah, puts him in a pretty damagingly aggressive headspace. The problem is that competition has always been tied to his ability to skate at all—he had to _earn_ ice time, prove, to himself, if no one else, that the lessons and the gear and all that money was worth it. But that’s not really the case now. Especially—

Well.

Especially because of Kent.

Because if he asked, Kent would find a way to make sure he has ice time every week. Probably every _day_. And that. That’s something Eli may very well let Kent do.

And he’s aways wanted to teach kids some day when he retires—once he’s graduated, won a few medals. Maybe he just has to…skip ahead in his planned timeline a little. Which—getting a job of some sort will probably be necessary anyway. If he isn’t skating for the college’s team he’ll lose his sports scholarship and—okay. Thinking about this is a little more than his head can handle right now but the point is that, yeah, not being able to skate competitively anymore sucks. Even worse is that he won’t be able to skate _at all_ for a couple months, but it’s not the death sentence it had felt like initially.

He’s not losing the ice. Or his memories on it.

He shifts a little to look at the time—11:40pm—and then rolls the other way to see if his mom is still there. She is, curled up on the rollaway bed with Hawke despite the fact that both Kent and Eli had tried to convince her to go back to the hotel for the night.

And.

Wait.

He admittedly has an excuse for being so slow, but it occurs to Eli that Kent hasn’t left his side for more than hour in over…well, probably around three straight days. Shit. He’s missed a _game_.

And he shouldn’t even be in the room with Eli right now according to hospital procedure, much less in the bed with him.

“Hey,” Eli whispers, poking Kent’s cheek.

Kent startles awake.

“What? Are you okay?”

“Shh. Mama’s still asleep. How are you here?”

“What?”

“You’ve been here, with me. The whole time. Even in the ICU.”

Kent blinks at him, still mostly asleep. “You remember being in the ICU?

“Not really? I sort of remember you were there, though.”

“Oh.”

“But they shouldn’t have let you,” Eli presses. “You’re not family. You shouldn’t even be here _now_ because it’s not visiting hours. So how are you here? And what about the team? What did you tell them? You had a _game_ yesterday.”

It’s dark and Eli has a little bit of double-vision going on and his head really is hurting after all the thinking he’s been doing, but despite all that he can tell that Kent’s face is doing a thing.

A scared thing.

Like he really, really, doesn’t want to answer those questions.

“Please tell me you didn’t bribe the medical staff,” Eli says. “Getting the hotel room for my mom is one thing, but—“

“No. No, I didn’t bribe anyone. I.”

Kent swallows.

“What?”

“I just. I don’t know if you’re going to be mad or not and I don’t think I can handle it right now if you are, so—“

“Kent, hey, it’s okay. Just tell me.”

“I told them I was your boyfriend. So they had to let me see you.”

He—

What?

“ _You what?_ ” Eli says.

“And then when they tried to make me leave the first night, I said—“

Kent gnaws on his bottom lip for a minute and it’s clear that he’s been doing that a lot because it’s red and ragged and angry-looking.

Eli presses his thumb to Kent’s mouth.

“Stop. And put on some chapstick in a minute. What did you say when they tried to make you leave?”

“That I’d tell my 900k Instagram followers that the hospital wouldn’t let me stay with my partner who was in the ICU, and that I was pretty sure there was a discrimination lawsuit to be made there. I wasn’t—“ Kent sighs. “I wasn’t very nice.”

“Oh my god.” Eli says faintly. “Did you make them sign like, nondisclosure agreements? Have you been checking online to make sure no one has said anything? I mean. Doctor-patient confidentiality is one thing but if anyone was listening—”

Kent laughs, a little hysterically, and Eli doesn’t understand why right up until Kent says:

“Someone recorded it—me telling the nurse that you were my boyfriend. It’s been online pretty much since the minute it happened. I can’t leave the building from any of the main entrances now without photogs taking pictures of me and Hawke.”

And Eli just.

Doesn’t know what to say.

Because this is everything they’ve been trying to avoid and they aren’t ready for this, yet. They were supposed to have more time.

And now they have to deal with this on top of everything else and—

This wasn’t the plan.

This wasn’t the plan at all and it’s _his fault_.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Kent. I’m _so_ sorry.”

“What? No. This isn’t—you didn’t do anything _wrong_. Jesus.”

“What are people saying? Is the team—are _you_ —“ he brings the hand not attached to an IV up to Kent’s face, “are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Kent says. “Mostly. I talked to Anika for like two hours yesterday morning before you’d really woken up yet, and that helped. A lot of the guys have texted their support. But I haven’t really—I’ve been ignoring my phone after the first call from Jessica on Saturday afternoon. She said we needed to figure out what statement I wanted to use and all this stuff and I was just— it was so stupid that I was even expected to _think_ about anything that wasn’t you. So I told her I didn’t care what they did and just. Hung up. Haven’t responded to anyones calls or texts since except for Eric and a few of the guys. Jeff. Tater. Rushy. I haven’t even been online.”

“Okay,” Eli says, and takes a couple of mindful breaths.

“Okay. This is fine. We just need to—“

Well. They don’t. Not if Kent has been avoiding social media for a reason.

“Would it be a problem, for you?” he asks Kent. “To check and see what people are saying?”

“I have no idea.”

“Can we try? Because I need to know. And I can’t look at screens. So.”

Kent laughs, and the fact that he can laugh about this—that he seems less freaked out than Eli is—well. That’s probably a good thing, right?

“Sure.”

He shifts, reaching for Eli’s backpack on the floor, and pulls it up onto the bed.

“So,” he says, sliding out the Macbook. “You seem, uh. Better. Than you were before.”

“Yeah,” Eli agrees. “Sorry for. You know. All of that. Earlier.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m—I don’t even want to know how I would feel if someone told me I couldn’t play hockey anymore. So, deal with it however you need to. I just want to help, and I don’t know how and you were kind of scaring me.”

“Sorry,” Eli says again. “I’m going to be sad for a while. Maybe angry. I don’t know. I should probably apologize in advance for future shitty behavior. My mom can tell you, I’m not the best patient in recovery.”

“If you’ll remember, neither am I,” Kent says, and does one of his little self-conscious smiles that makes the corners of his eyes go crinkly.

“True. Anyway. I think the most helpful thing you can do right now is distract me. So I’m just going to close my eyes and you can tell me what the internet is saying about us, cool?”

“Cool,” Kent agrees.

Eli makes a show of settling back against the pillows as Kent pulls up a web browser.

“We should probably set some ground rules before we start, though,” Eli says.

“Uh, okay?”

“Are we going to read comments sections?”

Kent pauses. “I don’t—yes? Just to see what people are saying?”

“Then we need to agree beforehand that we don’t respond to them. Even if people are saying terrible things. Even if they’re _wrong,”_ Eli says pointedly.

Kent grimaces a little and yes, Eli definitely has his number.

“That’s reasonable,” he says.

“And,” Elireaches out, not looking at the screen but rather the place where his fingers come to rest on Kent’s cheek. “If it’s too much, for either of us, we stop. No questions asked. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Eli rubs his thumb against Kent’s poor mangled lips.

“Good. Now put some chapstick on and then kiss me.”

“Okay.”

He does and Eli settles back in the cup of his shoulder, leaning his head into Kent’s neck, eyes closed. “Alright.Let’s start with Instagram first. Yours and then mine?”

“Yeah,” Kent agrees, game-face engaged.

And they get to work.

Kent falls asleep a little past 2am, his running dialogue getting more blurry and incoherent the later (earlier?) it gets. Eli waits until Kent’s breathing has evened out—gone soft and deep for several minutes—before he shifts his Macbook off of Kent’s thighs and onto his own lap.

Slow.

Careful.

Usually, once Kent is asleep he stays that way, regardless of Eli’s trips to the bathroom, Hawke’s pointy elbows, or Kit’s subtle attempts to smother them both in their sleep, but Eli is still cautious, turning the volume even lower than it’d been before—already barely audible so it wouldn’t wake Eli’s mama.

And then he finds the video.

It’s—well it’s really good quality, honestly. There’s no mistaking Kent, kneeling, curled around Hawke like she’s the only thing holding him upright. And Eli’s coach is saying something indistinct—too quiet for him to discern with the volume so low—and then Kent is looping Hawke’s leash around his chest and walking purposely up to the nurses’ station, captain voice wavering into something like desperation and Eli realizes he’s leaning forward without meaning to, reaching to pull the screen closer instinctively because—

“Hey,” Kent mutters sleepily, “What are you doing? Is that—“

_He’s my boyfriend,_ the Kent on the screen says, utterly wrecked. _Please, he’s my boyfriend, you have to let me see him._

And Eli really needs to stop with all the crying because it’s not helping his head at all.

“You are a romantic fucking fool,” Eli mutters, closing the laptop and shoving his face into Kent’s neck.

“Uh. Yeah?” Kent says, because there’s really no arguing with that. “Do you—“ He swallows, loud in Eli’s ear. “Do you wish I hadn’t?”

And that’s so— _Kent._

_“No._ No, I’m so glad you did. And maybe that’s selfish, but.”

I occurs to Eli that he hasn’t actually thanked Kent for that.

“Thank you,” he says, and it feels woefully inadequate. “I am. So. _So_ angry that you didn’t get to come out on your own terms. And—“ well, if he’s being honest he might as well be brutally honest, “I’m pretty scared about what’s going to happen once we leave the hospital. But having you here for the past few days will probably be worth the fallout. For me, at least.”

Kent pulls away from him a little, enough to look at his face, eyes all squinty in the darkness.

“You think it won’t be worth it for me?”

Eli’s head really hurts.

He probably should have waited for this conversation.

“I think…it’s never good when someone comes out because they feel like they have to. Especially when it’s for another person, rather than themselves.”

“Hey, no.”

Kent’s hands come up, gentle, to frame his face.

“I didn’t do it for you, I did it for me. Because if I had to spend one more minute in that goddamn waiting room, I was going to kill someone. _You_ didn’t need me, then. You were asleep. _I’m_ the one that needed you. To be with you. I don’t know how else to—“

Kent’s voice goes a little waver-y and he stops, clearing his throat.

“I don’t think you understand how much I fucking love you.”

He might.

Eli tips up his chin a little and it’s a familiar enough gesture that Kent ducks to kiss him automatically.

“I do,” Eli says, “I had a minor breakdown in the bathroom about it, remember?”

“Yeah,” Kent says, sounding pleased.

Eli leans back in to kiss Kent again, Kent’s bottom lip in particular, the red, ragged mess that it is.

“Put some more chapstick on your poor mouth and then come cuddle me. My head hurts.”

“Okay,” Kent agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I promised the angst would ease up a bit.
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> Montreal was amazing! It's now Finals Time, though, and I entered it a bit behind my intended schedule (in terms of work completed) due to the combination of travel and NHL playoffs. I can research while watching/listening to a hockey game. I cannot write a paper, though. I've tried. Anyway, my student's final papers are due the 6th, and mine are due the 12-14th. I also, conveniently, have a family shindig I have to road trip home for on the 5th. Which means I'll drive home the evening of the 4th after my last class, stay for a week and let my mama feed me while I grade students/work on my own papers, and then I'll come back the following week so I can attend the end-of-semester meetings, turn in print copies of papers, and hold "I disagree with my grade and want to plead/bargain" office hours for my students. It will be a whirlwind. I have no idea if I'll be able to keep up with weekly chapter postings through all this, but I'll try! I'll post updates on Tumblr if it looks like I'll be late/need to take a brief haitus until the madness has passed.
> 
> That being said--I'm so sorry if you left a longer comment or a comment with a question on the last chapter, I usually try to answer those but I'm just very short on time for the moment. As always I love and appreciate the time/effort people go through in leaving comments big and small and they're very inspirational in terms of encouraging me to work on the next chapter even when I'm very tired/burnt out. So thank you!!


	40. Chapter 40

Kent leaves the next day.

He waits until the last possible minute, because of course he does, but by 8 pm Kent has been smuggled out an employee exit, taken to the airport, and flown back to Vegas on a chartered plane just for him.

Because that’s the kind of thing you can do when you’re a multimillionaire hiding from the media.

It’s all very cloak and dagger according to the occasional phone updates Kent gives him, and Eli is disappointed he misses it. However, he’s not ready to leave the hospital yet. Getting his catheter taken out, submitting himself to an endless battery of tests, and re-learning how to walk with his new (old?) balance issues takes precedent.

Joy.

The good news is that his mother prepared for the possibility that his balance would be a problem again, and she brought Hawke’s original mobility harness with her from Georgia. So Eli is strolling a slow, wobbly, circuit of the ward—leaning pretty heavily on Hawke, but doing better than the doctor anticipated—by the time Kent calls to tell him that he’s home and half the Aces were waiting in the lobby of Kent’s building when he got there. Kent had told Tater and Jeff about his flight plans and one of them is apparently incapable of keeping a secret.

Eli’s money is on Tater.

Eli tells Kent to see to his team and returns his attention to completing a second lap of the ward. If he can do three circuits and pass a recognition memory test the following morning, the doctor said he could leave. And Kent has already booked him a ticket to Vegas for that afternoon because Kent views everything as a competition and obviously he thinks Eli is going to _win_. He’s also booked Eli’s mother a ticket back to Georgia, and Eli hasn’t checked, but he’s going to go ahead and assume they’re both first class. He’s a little too overwhelmed with everything to care, though, and god knows his parents are going to have even more medical bills to pay now, so, at this point, Eli will let Kent buy his mama as many flights as he wants.

Eli takes a break at the nurses’ station to surreptitiously listen to the TV, because of course they have it turned to some sports channel where they keep interrupting actual sports news to let large men stuffed into suits gleefully rehash what little they know about Kent and Eli’s relationship every fifteen to twenty minutes. They’ve only added two pieces of information since his last pass by the desk an hour before:  
The first is that someone (unsurprisingly) noticed that a good portion of the Aces roster was camped in the lobby of Kent’s building, and that shortly after they congregated there they were escorted upstairs by concierge—so the hypothesis is that Kent is home. There’s no video of Kent arriving, so clearly he’d had his driver from the airport take him through the garage or something.

The second new bit is that Aces management confirmed Kent would both attend practice and play in the home game against Arizona the following day. It’s the only time they’ve mentioned Kent in the press since their first release after the damn video was posted online—stating that Kent _requests his privacy and will address the media at a later date_.

The newscasters present the fact that Kent has likely returned to Vegas as if it is world-altering news, before returning to familiar waters—Eli’s youtube channel and Kent’s troubled past.

Eli rolls his eyes and heads back for his room.

His mama isn’t there. She’s gone to the hotel to have a shower and then check out since she refuses to spend the night anywhere but Eli’s room and will hopefully be headed home the following morning.

Elie takes the opportunity to call Eric back for the fourth time that day. They’ve been playing phone tag since 10am, when the doctor said he could have his phone back as long as he only used it for calls, and Eric’s voicemails each time they miss each other have gotten progressively more bitchy.

“About time,” Eric mutters in lieu of ‘hello,’ “How many tests have they dragged you to today?”

“A lot,” Eli confirms. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Eric agrees. “I’m going to try really hard not to cry on you but it might happen anyway, fair warning.”

“Noted.”

“Okay, so,” Eric says, more exhalation than words. “How are you? Physically. Mentally. Spiritually.”

“Geographically? Ecumenically?”

“Shut up, I’m serious.”

“I’m okay. I’m—my balance is really bad again. They said it should probably resolve a lot quicker this time around but it’s still pretty shitty to feel like I’ve regressed so far. At least Hawke hasn’t forgotten how to brace me.”

“How’s your head?”

“Pissed. Constant headache. All the standard vision issues. No migraines or aphasia, though, and no seizures since. So it doesn’t look like I’ve fucked myself up too badly. Hopefully.”

“Good. What about…” Eric pauses. “Have you seen the video?”

“Oh. You mean the one where my romantic fool of a boyfriend outed himself in full Hallmark Fashion so he could sit tearfully at my hospital bedside?”

“Yes,” Eric says dryly. “That video.”

“I have.”

“Were you able to see what the internet is saying or do I need to give you the rundown?”

“Kent did some investigational research for me last night, but I’d be interested in your, like, one-minute takeaway.”

“ _One_ minute? That’s cruel, Elijah. Well. Let’s see. General population I’d say is about 80% supportive, 20% neolithic simpletons. Hockey world, probably more like a 60/40 split, unfortunately. Maybe as good as 70/30? And lots of support from players and franchises on Twitter and Instagram—whoever runs the You Can Play social media accounts is _fully_ in love with you, by the way—but even players who I thought were like, Kent’s mortal enemies, are tweeting nice things. The problem with the hockey part of things is—“

“The fans,” Eli supplies.

“Yep.”

“That’s more or less what we decided as well.”

“Now, granted, this is all early stages. The real test is how things go after Kent starts playing again. Lip service is all well and good, but if he’s targeted on the ice, and if the refs don’t call it— Well. But once you two go on _Ellen_ and delight the free world with how adorable you are together, maybe things will shift more in your favor.”

“Oh my god, Eric. We’re not going on _Ellen_.”

“Of course you will. I’ll bet you—I’ll bet you my stand mixer that one or both of you have an invitation from her show within the next week. This is a big deal, Elijah. And frankly, y'all have a sickening good meet-cute story.”

“I don’t need your stand mixer, I have my own, now. Besides, it’s not like Jack wouldn’t just buy you another one so that’s not really high stakes.”

Eric is strangely silent.

Eli glances down to see if the call is still connected. “Hey. Did I lose you?”

“No, I’m here. You think Jack got me the mixer?”

Eli resists the urge to roll his eyes only because he knows that it would hurt.

“Yes,” he says patiently. “Of course Jack got you the mixer.”

“But he didn’t even like me then. If anything, he hated me!”

“Jack Zimmerman has never hated you. The man called Kent within hours of me being hurt to talk logistics about flying out with you—missing a _game_ so he could fly out with you—to make sure you were taken care of while you were so worried about me.”

“He’s—we’re teammates,” Eric says, “Jack would do that for any of us.” But he sounds uncertain.

Eli is very tempted to just tell him that Jack is probably in love with him, but manfully resists. “Is that honestly all you two are?” he asks. “Honestly.”

Eric sighs, all in a rush, and it sounds like maybe he’s pacing.

“I don’t know. Sometimes I think—like the night we found out you were hurt. I went to Haus to bake—“

“Of course you did.”

“And then it got late and I used up all the butter and decided around 1 am that I needed to just go get on a plane. But Jack talked me into waiting until morning and said I shouldn’t walk across campus so late with it snowing so he—he said I could stay. And that we could sleep in his bed together. Like he and Shitty do sometimes, but.”

The surge of words cuts off abruptly.

“But what?”

“I don’t think it was. Like he does with Shitty. There was—there was definitely cuddling. Like. He was holding me. And the bed is small so maybe that was necessary but he did this thing, where he was sort of rubbing his thumb up and down the back of my neck and it really. It didn’t feel platonic. But then the next morning he was back to his normal ‘Bittle, we’re going for a run, personal tragedies are no excuse for losing muscle tone. Eat more protein.’ And I’m pretty sure he’s been avoiding me since Kent called and told us you woke up, so.”

He sighs.

“So, I don’t know. Maybe your whole—” Eli can tell that Eric is gesturing”— _thing_ —is just throwing me off.”

“My whole what?”

“I mean. Statistically speaking, it’s really unlikely that two gay kids from Georgia will fall in love with professional hockey players and both have it…actually work out. And you’re kind of cornering the market there.”

“Jack isn’t a professional hockey player,” Eli points out.

“Yet,” Eric says darkly.

Which, point.

“I’m—I keep reminding myself that just because you’ve managed a happy ending with your originally unrequited hockey crush doesn’t mean I’m going to get one too.”

“Eric.”

“It’s fine. I’m sorry. I know I’m being dramatic.”

“Eric, seriously.”

“But lets get back to you!” he says, faux cheerfully. “Tell me about how ridiculous Kent has been, please, I need some humor in my life.”

“Fine,” Eli says. “I’ll drop it. But just do me a favor. The next time y'all have a kegster and you get table-dancing-drunk? Pay attention to where Jack is. And the way he looks at you. And the way he doesn’t _stop_ looking at you. Okay?”

Eric doesn’t say anything for several seconds.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Huh.”

***

When Eli’s mom gets back from the hotel, dragging her carryon and talking on the phone with a lilt to her Spanish that can only mean Abuela, she tosses Eli her little travel bottle of oil and nudges Hawke to one side so she can sit in front of him on the bed, slapping absently at his legs so he’ll sit up.

He dutifully does so, using the dropper to make a little pool in the cup of his hand, rubbing his palms together.

She tips her head back, still a little damp from her shower, and he starts to work the oil into her scalp with the pads of his fingers. It’s familiar: something they’ve been doing since he was ten and so full of excess energy she decided to—in her own words—put his fidgeting to use before he put her in an early grave. They’d tried to twist his own hair one year, but his curls have never been tight like hers and she nearly put _him_ in an early grave because he couldn’t sit still for more than a few minutes, so that idea was discarded rather quickly. But he still likes helping her with her hair and it’s something they can do together without talking, or arguing, as is often the case when they talk, so that’s nice too.

Apparently, tonight they will be talking, though, because when she hangs up the phone she pats his knee in thanks and then says, “So. Be honest with me. Do you want to take a semester off and come home? How are you feeling?”

He’s feeling like she purposely engineered this so she didn’t have to look at him while they’re talking about Serious Things.

He’s kind of grateful for that, though.

They’re pretty similar in that respect.

“No,” he says. And it’s the truth. “I’m not—I’m not really worried. Since the semester just started I’m still in the drop window if I need to lighten my course load. And Kent, well, a lot of the guys would be willing to help, if I need it.”

“Yes, but will you _ask_ for help?”

He rubs, maybe a little harder than necessary, at the crown of her head.

“ _Yes_.”

“Well,” she says, sighing. “I don’t doubt that Kent will try. That boy is…certainly something.”

She twists one of her locks absently at the root, pressing the fluffy little baby-hairs into place.

“He loves you,” she says. “I don’t know if he has told you yet, but he does.”

“He has.”

Mama tips her head back, one eyebrow raised at him, waiting.

He pushes her upright again.

“I love him too.”

“Do you.”

It’s not really a question.

“He’s a good boy,” she says, which is the closest he’s going to get to a ringing endorsement. “Maybe a little rough around the edges—“ and yeah, she’s definitely been listening to some of the news stories talking about Kent’s past exploits, “but a good boy. Although,” she pauses, clearly choosing her words. “He does not have the best, hm, impulse control, I have noticed.”

Eli isn’t really sure where she’s going with this.

“So,” she continues. “I expect it to be a long, _long_ , engagement if he comes anywhere near you with a ring within the next year.”

Eli manfully does not choke on his own spit.

He focuses on adding a little more oil to his fingertips.

“That’s not—we’re talking about that in April.”

“You’re talking about _rings_ in April?” She repeats, turning to look at him. “ _Elijah_. I was joking. You are _eighteen_ —“ and he can tell she’s about to dissolve into Spanish because her face is doing the ‘I can’t deal with you in English anymore’ thing so he really needs to stop that line of thought before—

“No!” Eli says. “I mean. We talked about the fact that we were moving a little fast, maybe, and that we should wait to really start talking about the future or whatever until we’ve been together longer. So we’re going to talk about things in April.”

“Things,” she repeats flatly.

She mutters something about rich hockey gringos with stupid heart eyes.

“I thought you said you were moving slow at Christmas. It has only been _a month_ since then.”

“I guess we, uh. Sped up?”

She sighs.

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry.”

She turns away from him, nudging his knee so he’ll get back to work.

“This just isn’t the kind of thing I ever thought I would need to prepare for,” she says, “you know, as a parent.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” she says wryly. “The gay thing, I could research, and I did. But I somehow doubt there are books about how to be supportive when your son is dating the first ever out NHL player. Especially when that NHL player is—“

“Kent Parson,” Eli supplies.

He only barely is able to say it without the ‘fucking’ in the middle.

“Yes,” she agrees.

“Well,” he says, and it’s stilted because they don’t _do_ this. “You’re um. Doing a pretty good job so far?”

She pats his knee again.

“Good.”

“And, ” he says. “About before. Yesterday. I didn’t—I was angry and I didn’t mean what I said. I’m sorry.”

“I know you are, baby.”

They lapse into silence and he focuses on the the little spaces behind her ears, breathing in jojoba and argan and if he closes his eyes he can almost pretend he’s thirteen again and sitting on the couch at home.

He clears his throat.

“I, uh. I really appreciate all the sacrifices you and Papa made. The first time I was hurt. And I know I wasn't very nice when I was recovering then, so. I’m sorry for that too. And you were really great, have been really great, about everything with Kent. And the fact that you apparently did research when I came out is—a lot of kids don’t have that. So. Thank you.”

She glances over her shoulder at him, eyes wide.

“Are you talking about _feelings_ with me, Elijah?” she says, and the disbelief is fair.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Since when do you do that?”

“Kent makes me, sometimes. It’s healthy.”

“Well,” she says, and good lord they are just as bad as each other. “That’s. Good. I—you know your father and I would do anything for you. We. Love you very much.” She clears her throat. “Even when you don’t call.”

Eli laughs a little which was probably her intention.

“So,” she says. “Do you…want to talk about feelings some more?”

“Nope.”

“Do you want to see if there’s anything on TV?”

“ _Please_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My edit job here is probably pretty shoddy--apologies for any mistakes!
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> It's the last week of school! Between my grading and my own final papers, it's not super likely I'll have an update for you next Thursday. A 1 week hiatus is the best I've managed during finals since starting grad school, so that's something, though (I think it was 3 weeks last semester?? your patience, dear readers, astounds me).
> 
> Anyway, I am on the Stress train to Stressville right now (and the NHL playoffs are NOt HeLPinG) but worst case I'll see you in two weeks!


	41. Chapter 41

Kent has a meeting with management before practice the morning of the Coyotes game that is just as awful as he was anticipating it would be.

Well.

Not _awful_.

No one is cruel, or even judgmental, but the fact of the matter is, they have a franchise to run, and Kent just became a very important, and somewhat volatile, pawn in their game.

After nearly an hour of passive aggressive, politically correct, very gentle bickering with the GM, Kent agrees to read a statement—an edited version of one Jessica already had waiting—after the game that night, and then makes his excuses to leave because practice is starting and he is here, after all, to play hockey.

They can’t really argue with that, and Kent practically runs for the locker room after being dismissed, hands fisted in the front pocket of his hoody.

Except then he actually gets to the door of the locker room and can hear the guys inside getting ready and that’s—

That’s a whole new brand of anxiety.

If he wasn’t the goddamn captain he would just duck in with his head down and skate hard and try his best not to talk to anyone but that’s not an option because he _is_ the goddamn captain and at this point everyone in the room has seen the video, if they weren’t there in person, where Kent _begged_ to see his boyfriend—desperate in a way that would be utterly humiliating if it wasn’t desperation about Eli.

It’s going to be weird, he thinks.

It’s going to be so. So. Weird.

He pushes open the door and walks purposely to his locker and.

Yeah.

It’s definitely weird.

He’d told the guys who came over the night before to just act normal, and they do, mostly. Except the noise level ratchets way down upon his entrance and just…stays that way. Like they’re waiting.

Even a few of the older guys and the call-ups who very purposely _aren’t_ looking at him—

Kent takes a deep breath through teeth still-clenched from the meeting and considers, briefly, how Eli would handle this situation. Because it is a situation and it does need to be handled because if he doesn’t say something soon Jeff or Rads probably will and that’s not their responsibility. It’s his.

So.

What would Eli do?

He grabs his helmet from the top cubby of his locker and bangs it a few times against the side of his stall until everyone goes completely, expectantly, silent.

“So,” Kent says. “I’m gay.”

Jeff coughs on what might be a laugh next to him.

“It’s not a big deal,” he continues quickly, because it’s clear Tater is readying a sarcastic response. “People are going to try and make it a big deal. PR and other teams and whatever the fuck else. But don’t let them. I’m still here to play hockey and I’m still here to win and that should be everyone else’s focus too. Okay?”

He gets a handful of afirmations.

“I’m only going to make one statement tonight, after the game. And try to just ignore all media after that. I’d appreciate it if you don’t comment on my relationship with Eli if you’re asked, or that if you do comment it’s without giving them any actual information. Hopefully after a few weeks people will get bored and move on. But I don’t know how this is going to go down at first. How other teams will react. Other fans.”

“I can guess,” Nicky says darkly.

Kent nods, resigned, already feeling exhausted.

“I won’t apologize for coming out, or for, uh,”—and after everything that’s happened, the word still sticks in his throat—“being gay, because I’m not sorry. But I do apologize for how this will effect you. It shouldn’t. But it will. And I know that. So. I’m sorry.”

“Got your back,” Tater says, and is quickly echoed by Rushy, Asher, a couple other indistinct voices.

“All Russians got your back, too,” Tater continues. “I talk to them. Most good already. Some I threaten. But they all promise. No dirty hits. No, uh,” he glances at Oshi and says something in Russian.

“Homophobic,” he supplies.

“No homophobic talk,” Tater finishes.

“Oh,” Kent says. “That’s—thanks.”

“You talked to _all_ of the Russians in the the NHL?” Asher asks, sounding kind of awed. “How? Do y'all have like, weekly secret phone meetings? Do your families all know each other? Is there really a Russian Hockey Mafia?”

“No,” Tater says patiently, like Asher is particularly stupid. “We have group chat. Whatsapp.”

“Oh.”

Asher looks disappointed.

“But if _is_ a Russian Hockey Mafia, I’m boss.”

“Of course,” Jeff says.

“How’s Eli,” Rushy asks. “Are they letting him go today?”

Kent brightens. “Probably. He passed his mobility and physical tests first thing and was about to do the mental tests when I talked to him last.” Kent pulls his phone out but he doesn’t have any missed calls.

He shrugs.

“If he passes them, will he come to the game tonight?” Asher asks.

Kent gives Asher a disbelieving look. “He can barely walk and he’s dealing with fucking concussion symptoms. You think I’m going to ask him to navigate the maze that is our stadium and then spend three hours around flashing lights and screaming fans?”

“Not to mention that he’d be mobbed the minute someone recognized him.”

“We could get him a wheelchair!” Asher argues. “And some hearing protection! And we could sneak him in. Like put a hat on him or something.”

“You gunna put a hat on Hawke too?” Jeff says.

Asher deflates. “Oh. Right. I guess the dog is a little conspicuous.”

“A little,” Jeff agrees.

“Maybe the next home game,” Kent says, and tries not to get his hopes up about seeing Eli, finally able to wear one of his jerseys, in the stands. “But tonight, I’ll just be happy to go home to him.”

Nicky makes a gagging noise and Kent flushes because that was, admittedly, pretty gross.

Feelings are the worst.

“ _Anyway_. If anyone has any problems or, uh. Questions? Talk to me privately. But otherwise. Lets just keep playing the way we’ve been playing.”

Jeff clears his throat and Kent glances at him.

“Also, Jeff would like to say something,” he says dryly.

That gets a few laughs.

“As most of you know,” Jeff says, “I do a lot of work with You Can Play and hockey camps for LGBTQ youth.”

Tater makes a faux surprised noise.

Rushy punches him in the spleen.

“I tell the kids that, sure, some guys are still assholes, but on the whole, NHL teams are about brotherhood, are like family, and that gay—” he nods to Rushy “—or bisexual, players aren’t treated any differently than the straight ones.”

“You know a lot of gay NHL players?” one of the call-ups asks—not mean, just curious. Maybe a little disbelieving.

“I know a few,” Jeff says. “Shockingly, when you’re an outspoken advocate for the queer community, queer people tend to trust you.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Now,” Jeff continues. “Complete acceptance isn’t, unfortunately, the truth. Most guys? Sure. But some dealt with, or are still dealing with, a lot of shit when teammates or staff found out about them. Some got traded and got more careful. But none of that has ended up on the news. So this is the first time the hockey world at large has really had to confront a situation like this. And because it’s Kenny—“

Kent sighs as several of the guys whoop.

“I don’t need to tell you that this is a big deal. That even with Kent making a statement, the media is going to be watching his every move.”

“Thanks, bro.” Kent mutters.

Jeff rolls his eyes.

“Kent isn’t the only one who’s going to be watched, though. _We_ will be too. And if there’s even a hint of division or discomfort from anyone on the team, the media is going to latch onto it and exploit it. They don’t want a happy story, here. They want blood.”

And Kent…hadn’t even thought of that.

“I know Jessica is already planning to talk to everyone before the game tonight, but until then—think long and hard about anything you post on Instagram. Anything you snap, anything you text your friends or other guys in the league. The last thing we need is a screenshot of someone’s shitty locker room joke ending up on Deadspin.”

Kent glances around the room and all of them are paying attention. Even the ones not looking at him—taping their socks or lacing their skates—are nodding along.

“There are kids all over the world right now—kids in juniors, even—who are going to watch how this whole thing plays out and use it as a determining factor in their own lives: whether they’ll keep playing hockey or quit. Whether they’ll come out or stay in the closet.We can’t control how other organizations react, but we can make damn sure they see a united, supportive, team behind Kent. Okay?”

Kent has to sit down through the yells of agreement.

And maybe he pulls his shirt off a little slower than normal so he can hide his face for a minute.

It’s fine.

He leaves his phone with one of the trainers, just in case, as they head onto the ice, and ten minutes into practice she waves at him because he has a voicemail. It’s from Eli, saying he just barely made his flight but has boarded, and Kent makes the mistake of excitedly telling Tater that Eli will probably be back at Kent’s place before practice is even over.

Because of this, he finds himself escorting a half-dozen freshly-showered hockey players home with him two hours later.

He texts Eli a heads-up, but doesn’t get a response, so he’s trying to shush the guys in the hallway, hoping they don’t wake Eli up if he’s sleeping, when he realizes there’s music coming from his apartment.

Kent pauses at the door, imagining, for a moment, Eli in the shoes, dancing in the kitchen, but he remembers pretty quickly that Eli still needed help standing, much less walking, the last time Kent had seen him. Dancing. Especially dancing in heels, was probably off the table for a while.

He takes a steadying breath and opens the door.

Eli is leaning against the center island, back to the door, cutting something while swaying slightly to the music. Hawke, still wearing her mobility harness, is pressed up against his left leg. Eli is wearing one of Kent’s long-sleeved raglan shirts, the green apron, and a pair of knee-high wool socks. He might be wearing shorts, but also might not be. If he is, they’re _very_ short shorts and hidden under the hem of the shirt.

It’s a good look, but he clearly wasn’t expecting anyone other than Kent.

“Oh my god,” Eli says, fumbling for the handle on Hawke’s harness. “Uh. Hi?”

“Eli!” Tater yells. He doesn’t seem to care about the Schrodinger’s Pants situation.

“Hug okay?” he asks. “Don’t want to hurt.”

“Oh, yeah, go for it.”

Tater folds himself down, very carefully, to envelop Eli and…yeah. Kent kind of gets why the internet thinks they’re so cute together. Not cuter than Kent and Eli. Definitely not. Just. They are _kind of_ cute.

Eli excuses himself to go put on a pair of Kent’s sweats a moment later—no shorts, then— before the rest of the guys say their hello’s and he gets another, even more gentle, hug from Jeff.

When Eli finally gets passed to Kent, Kent wraps him up in his arms, not so gentle, and then just. Clings. For a minute.

“Jesus,” Jeff says. “Didn’t you just see each other yesterday?”

Judging from the other guys’ laughter, Eli flips Jeff off behind Kent’s back.

They separate a moment later, though, and Eli turns to face everyone again, stabilizing himself with Kent on one side and Hawke on the other.

“Bro.” Asher says. “You’re like. Really wobbly. Are you okay?”

Nicky slaps the back of Asher’s head.

“Ow,” Asher says, slapping Nicky back. “I wasn’t trying to _mean_. He _is_ wobbly.”

“I am,” Eli agrees. “It’s fine.”

“ _See,_ ” Asher says, hopping backward to avoid a kick that Nicky aims at his shins.

“You think this is what having kids is like?” Kent asks, soto voice.

“Yes,” Rads says.

Eli pointedly clears his throat and they settle down.

“I don’t know how much Kent has told you—“

“Next to nothing,” Rads supplies.

“But I have a TBI—again—and a concussion. I’m recovering really well, but it’ll probably be a few months until I’m back to normal.”

“When can you start skating again?” Rushy asks, because they’re all athletes and thats the first question any of them ask when teammates are hurt.

“Well. Six to eight weeks, best case. But I can’t—“

Kent pulls Eli a little closer.

“I _shouldn’t,_ skate competitively anymore.

“Like _at all_?” Nicky asks, looking more than a little horrified.

“Not competitively, no.” Eli says. “But it’s okay. It doesn’t mean I’m losing skating. I mean. Next semester, as long as my balance is better, I’ll probably try to find a coaching job. And Kent’s already promised to get us ice time the _day_ I’m allowed, so.”

“Coaching?” Matts asks, and it’s the first thing he’s said all morning.

Kent is still a little baffled Matts decided to come at all.

“Yeah,” Eli says, “Like teaching kids? There aren’t a ton of programs in Vegas for figure skating, but I can probably find some part time work somewhere with the resume I have. I’m maybe a little overqualified, honestly, but they’d have to be willing to work with the whole," he gestures to Hawke, "seizure disorder thing, which—”

“Do you _like_ teaching kids?” Matts asks, strangely intense, and…well that’s admittedly a pretty important question.

_Kent_ hadn’t even asked that when Eli told him his plan.

“I do,” Eli says, grinning. “I always used to volunteer to help out the younger skaters on my teams growing up. My mom says I just like bossing people around, but,” he shrugs, “You remember how much fun we had at the Breaking the Ice Event? With the kids there?”

“Yeah,” Matts agrees. “You’re. Um. You’re really good with them. Kids. You even taught _me_ something.”

“Put that on your resume,” Rushy advises Eli.

That devolves into another fight and then Kent corrals everyone into the living room where he starts up Mario Kart to distract them before returning to check on Eli.

“Hey,” he says, looping his arms around Eli’s waist. “Should you be spending this much time standing up?”

Eli elbows him, gently, and slides a pile of finely diced red pepper into a bowl. He reaches for a stalk of celery next.

“I’m fine. The doctor was actually really impressed with how much I’ve improved. She said I can move around as much as I want provided it doesn’t exacerbate any of my head issues—which it hasn’t. Oh and I start physical therapy on Monday.”

“Okay,” Kent smudges the word under Eli’s ear, then kisses the skin there just to be thorough.

“What are you making?”

“Comfort food. Habichuelas Guisadas. Abuela’s recipe, of course.”

“Of course,” Kent agrees. “Do you want any help?”

“What a _want_ ,” Eli says darkly, “is Amazon Now to deliver plátanos but apparently that’s too much to ask from the largest internet retailer in the world.”

“Uh,” Kent says. “I’m sorry?”

Eli sighs, leaning back into him.

“Not your fault. I just wanted to make Tostones.”

Kent has no idea what that means.

“Do you want me to write an angry letter to Amazon?”

“Would you?” Eli says, faux seriously.

“For you? Of course.”

That gets him another kiss.

“Okay,” Eli says, “stop distracting me. And go make sure the boys don’t destroy the living room.”

“Okay.”

Kent squeezes him a little. Just because. And then vaults over the couch onto Jeff’s back, insuring he drives right off the rainbow road.

Jeff does not take kindly to that.

Frankly it’s amazing his couch has survived as long as it has.

Half an hour, and several outraged losses later, Kent notices Matts edging his way out of the living room. When he finally commits, rounding the island to approach Eli, now working at the stove, Kent gets up too.

Matts looks nervous more than anything else, so Kent pauses, leaning against the wall just to right side of the kitchen, and watches Eli’s back as Matts draws to an awkward stop next to him, in front of the sink.

Eli glances over at Matts briefly, then a second time when it’s clear that he isn’t there to wash his hands or something.

“Hey,” Eli says.

“Hey,” Matts agrees. “So. Do you like, want to coach _professionally_? Like when you’re done with college? Or would it just as a side thing?”

Which. This is also something Kent has been wondering.

Why Matts is asking it, he has no idea.

“Oh,” Eli says. “Well, I don’t know. I wouldn’t ever want to coach olympic hopefuls or anything—just kids who are starting out—less expectations. Less stress.”

“More fun?” Matts supplies.

“Right,” he agrees. “But that doesn’t usually pay well, so.” He shrugs. “Then again, thanks to Kent, my Youtube channel is making a little profit off ad revenue, so maybe if I can grow that a little over the next few years? I guess that may be an option. I’ve got time to figure things out.”

“But you don’t even—“ Matts cuts himself off a little abruptly with a grimace.

“What?”

“I think I was about to say something that Jeff would give me a lecture for.”

“Oh? Well, say it anyway. I’ve had a disclaimer and now I’m curious.”

Matts glances toward the living room, where Rushy has Tater in a headlock, yelling about Russian espionage, and Kent pulls back a little so he won’t be seen.

He’s eavesdropping and he definitely shouldn’t be, but—

“Well,” Matts says, voice low. “Do you really even _need_ to work? Kent has a shit ton of money. And he’s, like. Totally gone on you. After the hospital, I kinda figured you two were end game.”

“End game,” Eli repeats.

“Um. Going to get married?” he says, even quieter.

“I know what _end game_ means,” Eli mutters.

Kent can’t decide if he should be embarrassed or pleased.

“So,” Matts continues. “You could do whatever you want? Regardless of if it pays well.”

“Potentially,” Eli allows.

And thats…it honestly hadn’t even occurred to Kent. That if he and Eli do end up—even thinking the world “married” is kind of terrifying—if they end up _together_ , then Eli will be a millionaire by like, proxy. Or whatever.

It’s a good thought. That maybe Eli wouldn’t object to Kent spending money on him anymore if the money was _theirs_.

“Are you okay?” Matts asks, and Kent returns his attention to the kitchen where Eli has stopped moving.

“I’m good,” he says, sounding a little breathless. “Just. Trying to adjust my worldview a little.”

“Okay,” Matts says, uncertain. “So, if money uh, wasn’t a problem? What would you do then?”

“Probably the same thing, I guess. I’d still want to coach, but maybe as a volunteer? For kids who can’t usually afford lessons? And keep up with my channel.”

“Cool,” Matts says decisively. “Alright, well. I’ve got to go nap, but it was nice seeing you. I hope you feel better.”

And then he just…walks away.

Kent watches, stymied, as Matts collects his coat, yells a goodbye that no one acknowledges because Mario Kart, and then heads out the door.

Eli watches him, similarly baffled, and then shakes his head, returning his attention to the stove.

Kent retreats to the living room with the mental equivalent of a shrug.

Hockey players are weird.

Especially about their pre-game naps.

A few minutes later, Eli sets the oven timer, and then joins them, taking off Hawke’s harness and more or less collapsing in Kent’s lap.

Kent turns the volume on the TV down, just in case Eli’s head is hurting, while Jeff happily updates Eli on the current standings: where Kent is dead last.

“Hey Jeff,” Kent says. “Did you know that somewhere in the world there’s a really rude goat named after you?”

“Oh no,” Eli says.

“There’s a _what_?” Jeff says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:
> 
> Well. I know I said I wouldn't have time to get a chapter done this week, but I procrastinate-wrote this last night instead of grading papers, so. Here you go! It's a little rough and I'll probably tweak it a little later--as always, please let me know if you see any errors.
> 
> In paper-grading news, I managed to get a good portion done this morning and I am...so proud of my students. I had one that did complete psychological profiles on all the Avengers (a psych major, natch), another that used Check Please! as a conduit for his argument that homosocial male bonding, particularly in sports/fraternities can actually be positive and progressive (unlike most media depictions), I had another use Check Please! to talk about the importance of recognizing and challenging assumptions society trains us to make RE stereotypes (and how Ngozi purposefully uses and then subverts stereotypes in Check Please). I had one use Fraction's Hawkeye to talk about the importance of disability representation in media, one who talked about intersectional feminism and Black Panther (focusing on female rep), one who introduced me to a new graphic novel: Mis(h)adra, and talked about the importance of recognizing and treating mental illness in POC, and one who talked about the complexities and weaknesses in the standard comic "heroes" and "villains" binary.
> 
> Good stuff, is what I'm saying. I can't wait to teach this class again next year.
> 
> Anyway, I am so close to being finished with the semester, but that's not really a relief because I have...so much work to do this summer. Ah! 
> 
> Thank you so much for the comments, they give me life.  
> See you next week!


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: homophobic language/references to homophobia (but this is honestly a very happy chapter, so don't fret)

Napping with Eli is one of Kent’s favorite things in the entire world.

Eli isn’t clingy—Kent is definitely the clingy one between them—but he doesn’t seem to mind Kent’s predilection for wrapping around him like a body pillow. Which means Kent wakes up in the exact position he fell asleep: warm and happy and with his mouth pressed against the vertebra of Eli’s neck, just beneath the fuzz of his hairline. Kent leaves a sloppy kiss there, because he can, and then eases his way out of bed and into the bathroom.

Where he promptly remembers that he’s about to go play his first NHL game as an out gay man under the watchful eyes of a sold-out stadium and hundreds of thousands of TV viewers.

He leans against the counter and takes a minute to breathe.

Then another minute.

Possibly a third.

The duvet crinkles in the bedroom and he hears Eli talking briefly to Kit before telling Hawke to go get her harness. Kent listens as Eli buckles her into it and makes his way out of the bedroom and then Kent glances toward the not-quite-closed bathroom door as Kit shoulders it open and joins him, a little judgmental at his hunched-over position.

She jumps up onto the counter, knocks her head against his wrist briefly, and then settles herself primly in the bowl of the sink.

“Okay,” he says firmly. “I should get ready.”

Kit blinks approvingly at him.

Kent straightens, rubs his knuckles once over Kit’s bony eyebrows, and then goes to change into his nicest game-day suit.

He can’t control what the media will say about him tonight, but he can make damn sure he looks fantastic in any of the photos they publish.

When he makes his way back out to the living room, shoes shined and hair at least sort of gelled into submission, Eli has a Hozier record on and is doing something that seems needlessly aggressive to a chicken breast.

Kent just watches him for a while, because he has a few minutes before he needs to leave, and there’s something innately calming about the way Eli moves around a kitchen, even when he has to pause every now and then to find his balance—to brace his hand against the counter, or lean into Hawke.

When he’s finished brutalizing the chicken, he adds it to a pan thats already making low, spatter-y cooking-noises—“simmering” is the word? Maybe? Kent is trying to build his cooking vocabulary but it’s a work in progress—and then moves to preheat the oven.

Kent’s phone buzzes with a text, letting him know his driver is in the parking garage, and he takes a bolstering breath.

It’s not really effective.

He comes up behind Eli as he’s opening the fridge, wraps his hand around Eli’s on the handle, presses his opposite palm flat to the face of the freezer door and then just…holds him there:

The front of Kent’s body pressed flush to his back.

Head ducked.

Nose crushed almost uncomfortably into the side of his neck.

“Oh,” Eli says. “Well, hello.”

Kent breathes him in.

And then exhales.

Slowly.

“Hey,” he says, maybe a little sheepish.

“Hey,” Eli agrees. “You okay?”

“I am now.”

“Okay.”

Eli closes the refrigerator and leans back against it, turning so they’re face-to-face.

“Do you want me to ride with you to the arena?”

“No. Jessica said there will probably be protestors. You don't need to see that.”

“Neither do you,” Eli says quietly.

And then he just sort of pets the side of Kent’s face. Gently. Like Kent is someone who _deserves_ gentleness.

Kent clears his throat.

“No,” he says again. “Really. It’s fine. You stay and don’t overexert yourself. Call Eric. Take a long bath.” He pauses. “Maybe not at the same time.”

Eli rolls his eyes and mutters something about him being a possessive moron.

“I’m a possessive moron that ordered a box full of new Lush products for you to try. They’re in the cabinet.”

Eli braces his hands on Kent’ shoulders and very carefully goes up onto his toes to kiss Kent’s nose.

“FYI, you can’t just buy your way back into my good graces when you’re being problematic,” Eli says. “But thank you.”

It’s a joke. Kent knows it’s a joke because Eli is still smiling at him. But there’s an undertone there that makes Kent think maybe they’re going to need to have a conversation about his gift-giving proclivities soon.

He’s not looking forward to it.

Maybe he should ask Rads for advice.

“Okay,” he agrees. “I should go.”

“Hey,” Eli says, lacing his fingers behind Kent’s neck. “Whatever happens tonight. I love you.”

Kent kisses him.

Takes his time.

Commits it to memory so he can think about it later, when things inevitably go to shit.

“Love you too,” he says.

***

Jessica was right.

There are protestors.

He thought he was prepared for it, but he really isn’t. At all. Not because it’s horrifying or anything but because it’s absolute madness. The entire street in front of the arena is filled with people, easily double, maybe even triple the normal amount of pre-game pedestrian traffic. There are police barricades and people with signs, and flags, and bullhorns. Except he realizes, very quickly, as the car creeps through traffic along the boulevard, that a good portion of the crowd, maybe even a majority of the crowd, is decked out, not in Aces reds, blacks, and whites, or even Coyote reds and tans, but all _sorts_ of colors. Pinks and neon greens and turquoises.

_Rainbow_ colors.

People are wearing tie-dyed jerseys.

Homemade shirts.

Dresses.

Kilts.

There are kids on shoulders with glittery rainbow faces and women wearing pride flags like capes.

There are several men in full body paint posing for pictures together at one of the police barricades while a giant, bearded, guy in Kent’s winter classic jersey and a pink tutu juggles his beer and a phone to take the photos.

There’s a pair of, probably teenagers, in rainbow morph suits, dirty dancing in front of a man with a sign about Kent going to hell.

And yeah, sure, there’s definitely that: the requisite _God Hates Fags_ posters and a guy screaming through a bullhorn about the wages of sin being death. There’s a cluster of people who have tatters of what probably used to be Parson jerseys proudly held aloft. There are signs with slurs and badly photoshopped pictures of Kent and angry, red-faced, middle-aged men shaking them in people’s faces…but.

They’re the minority.

Probably.

Kent was never good at math but.

They’re the _minority_.

He laughs, a little hysterically, as a woman dips her girlfriend? wife? convenient bystander? and kisses her, right in front of one protestor, both of them flipping the man off, and Kent has to sit back in the seat and close his eyes and breathe a little.

“Mr. Parson?” the driver says a few minutes later—Paul? Kent thinks his name is Paul. Paul deserves a substantial tip when this is over.

“Yeah?” He says.

“We’re here.”

Kent steps out of the car in the parking garage to find Jessica waiting for him.

She’s in her usual black suit but there’s a tiny rainbow maple leaf pin on her lapel and normally Kent would make a Canadian joke but he doesn’t.

He just. Hugs her. Quickly.

And doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t know if he can without this voice doing something embarrassing.

And he thinks: maybe this won’t be a disaster after all.

***

It’s a disaster.

The game is an absolute disaster.

And it’s not even really the Coyote’s fault.

Well, it is. Because a couple of them are opportunistic douchebags. And the refs certainly aren’t helping as it seems they’ve been rendered temporarily deaf and blind. But the primary reason the Aces are down by two at the end of the first is entirely because his team has _lost their fucking minds._

Jeff gets four minutes for slashing less than a minute into the game after Booker hisses something at Kent that contains the word “faggot.”

Tater joins him in the box for high-sticking thirty seconds later.

Rads gets in an all-out brawl with Nooks after they have an exchange in front of the goal and Rushy probably would have joined in if a ref hadn’t dragged him by the tail of his jersey back into the crease.

Asher gets five for fighting.

Rads gets four for slashing.

Nicky gets two for tripping.

Tater gets ten for misconduct after Nooks cross-checks Kent in the head and the refs don’t call it and Tater decides to take justice into his own hands. Justice apparently being immediate death. Right there on the ice.

Jeff gets five for fighting.

They're playing three on five for over half the first period, Coach is well on his way to an aneurysm, and the only reason the Coyotes haven’t racked up more points is because of Rushy, who looks equally ready to drop his gloves at any moment.

When time runs out and they file into the locker room, cursing, Kent throws his helmet and, with a nod from Coach, yells:

“ _What. The actual. Fuck_.”

The guys all mutter about the asshole Coyotes and the fucking refs and no one will meet his eyes.

“I said,” Kent starts lowly, “to treat this like _any other game_. Coach said, to treat this _like any other game_. Jessica said to be on your best behavior, because this game will be under extreme scrutiny, and _you_ —“

“But Booker—“ Asher starts.

“I _know_. I know what Booker’s been saying, and Nooks, and Pevs, and I’m _ignoring_ it.”

“But we can’t let them get away with it!” Asher says, a flush riding high on his cheekbones. “It’s bullshit!

“Yeah!” Nicky agrees, “The refs aren’t doing anything and the things they’re saying—“

“None of this is _new_ ,” Kent yells, and several of those who had started to object go quiet.

“ _None_ of it,” he repeats. “I’ve been hearing the same fucking shit since I was in peewee. Hell, _I’ve_ said worse on the ice than the things I’ve heard tonight and I’m pretty damn sure everyone in this room has as well at some point in their careers.”

“ _I_ haven’t,” Jeff says mullishly, tonguing the cut on his lip.

Everyone ignores him.

“Well, yeah,” Matts says, “but never to someone who was _actually gay._ ”

Kent just stares at him until Matts realizes how stupid that just sounded.

“Look,” Kent says, running a hand through his hair, “Someone tries to check me in the head and the refs don’t call it? Fine. Punch their fucking teeth out.”

Tater preens.

“But in the second period I don’t want to see a single person draw a penalty for anything less than that. If teams realize that talking shit about me results in our entire second line in the box for—for defending my honor or some shit, we are going to lose _every single game_ we play from here on out. If _I_ can ignore the shit being said about me, you can too.”

“Or not ignore,” Tater says. “Talk back. Make uh,” he consults quietly with Oshie for a moment. “Make them uncomfortable. So they stop.”

“What do you mean?” Kent asks guardedly.

“Like. Example. Little angry forward—red hair?—“

“Peverly,” Kent supplies, sighing.

He’d actually played with Pevs in juniors. Nooks, too. He’d thought they were good guys.

“Okay. Peverly says bad things, beginning of period against the boards when I fight him for puck. He says Kenny bad captain because gay—blah blah. And I’m say yes, Kenny _very_ bad Captain. Because I ask, every day, for threesome with Kenny and Eli and Kenny say no. Because he jealous. Because if we threesome, then Eli knows I’m best at sex, and then Eli like me most and then Kenny be sad and alone and only cat love him—“

“Oh my god,” Kent says, “Seriously?”

Tater looks pleased with himself, shrugging.

“It worked! He’s shut up, now.”

“I like that,” Asher muses. “Can we do that?”

“Sure,” Kent says, resigned. “Whatever. Just no more penalties.”

“Unless they hurt you,” Tater reminds him, picking torn skin from his knuckles.

“Right,” Kent sighs. “Unless they hurt me.”

“Then we punch their fucking teeth out,” Rads agrees.

Coach sighs, louder than Kent, and shakes his head.

“Okay, boys, focus. Let’s talk about the second period.”

***

Kent is thinking about what Tater said when he lines up for the first face-off of the second period with Booker.He’s been ignoring him so far, but...

“Fucking cocksucker,” Booker hisses.

And.

Well.

Kent glances at the ref who is still pointedly pretending he can’t hear them.

“Uh, yeah?” Kent says, tightening his grip on his stick. “I’d be a pretty shitty boyfriend if I wasn’t.”

Booker’s face goes blank.

“What?”

“It’s not like it’s a hardship, though, let me tell you. Eli’s dick? Very nice, as far as dicks go. A little bigger than you’d expect for someone his size but not like, _too big_ , you know?”

"The fuck? Don’t—“

“And he’s definitely a grower, not a shower, which threw me off at first, because I’m not a size queen or anything but I have to admit I was a _little_ disappointed the first time—"

“Jesus,” Booker says viciously, “Shut the fuck up.”

“Hey man, you brought it up. Anyway. Back to Eli’s dick. I definitely was _not_ disappointed once—“

Booker loses the face-off.

Booker also retreats to stony silence and Kent finds himself grinning for most of the rest of the game, firstly, because they quickly tally two points in the second to tie, but secondly because he keeps hearing little snatches of conversations:

Like Rads patiently explaining the importance of prep for anal sex—since Pevs seems so interested in the topic—

Or Rushy shouting advice to anyone near the net on where to get good sex toys in town since clearly the ‘yotes are a little too keyed up and need to get laid—even if it’s only by themselves.

Or Asher talking about the pros and cons of oil versus water-based lubricant—possibly unprovoked—to a wide-eyed rookie as they battle over the puck.

Or Jeff enquiring if a red-faced defender might himself have latent homosexual desires judging by his apparent obsession with the male phallus.

They win the game.

And when the buzzer sounds, seconds after Kent’s empty-net goal, Kent just stands at center ice for a second, leaning on his stick, smiling so hard it hurts.

No one is leaving the stands.

It’s like a wall of colorful noise—so many people standing up and screaming and—

He doesn’t think he’s ever heard the Vegas arena this loud before.

Jeff crashes into him a few seconds before Tater and then Asher and then Nicky and Rads and then there’s just a pile of Aces on top of him all yelling indistinctly like they’ve just won game seven in a tied up playoff run.

He loves his team so much.

“Hey,” Jeff says, catching Kent in a headlock so he can yell in his ear. “Looks like your boy is here.”

“My what?”

Jeff points and some of the other guys start howling and.

Yes.

There Eli is on the Jumbotron: sitting next to Alex in one of the private boxes, wearing sunglasses and neon pink hearing protection and smiling so wide it looks like it hurts.

Kent knows the feeling.

Kent points to him with his stick and Eli stands, a little slow, a little shaky, and Kent doesn’t understand what he’s doing at first until Eli has turned to show his back to the camera.

He’s wearing Kent’s jersey.

_Parson 90._

He grins over his shoulder and the stadium maybe gets even louder.

And oh.

Kent didn’t know it was possible to love someone this much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D
> 
> And I have absolutely nothing against the Coyotes, but for the purpose of this fic, (and, let's be real, probably IRL) most teams have at least a couple d-bag players on their rosters.
> 
>  
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> I'm officially done with the spring semester! I'm working on my rationale this week, then attempting to fix up a couple articles for publication next week and then I'll be reading for Quals all summer. Eep. Vegas is killing the playoff game, and, according to Instagram, most of the Pens are getting a well-deserved break. So all is well in Real Life Hockey. 
> 
> I keep saying "When I finish X I'll make time to reply to a bunch of comments" but then there's always a new x or y or z to accomplish. Thank you so much if you're commenting--I read all of them and especially appreciate ones that point out mistakes or particular overuse of certain punctuation (cough--dashes--cough). I would not be nearly as focused on getting chapters out every week if it wasn't for the awesome encouragement y'all give me.
> 
> See you next week!


	43. Chapter 43

Kent lets Rushy handle the media on the ice because he was the star of the game and Kent has a press conference scheduled in 10 minutes. At the very least he wants a shower, a solid liter of Gatorade, and maybe a hug from his boyfriend beforehand. Kent hopes, absently, as he strips off his pads, that Eli isn’t getting mobbed as he tries to leave the box. Alex probably has that handled, but—

“Hey,” Kent yells to Adam, one of the trainers. “Can you make sure Eli is okay? And maybe—“ he pauses, glancing around the locker room. The guys have all been more or less supportive so far but there’s a big difference between inviting his friend who happens to be gay into the locker room and inviting his _boyfriend_ , so he isn’t sure—

“Bring Eli here,” Tater yells from his stall, mostly naked. “We protect best.”

“ _Yeah_ we do,” Asher agrees, high-fiving and then chest-bumping Tater.

Which. Okay, then.

“ _Can_ we get him down here?” Kent asks Adam. “Or would it be safer to—”

“Security has him already, I think,” Adam says. “Jessica arranged it with them beforehand.”

Jessica. Of course. Kent should have known.

He gets in the shower and by the time he's out, less than five minutes later, Eli is sitting in his stall grinning, as Hawke, vest off, attempts to lick all of the sweat off Rad’s calves.

“Hey,” Kent says, a little breathless.

He just finished a hockey game. Breathlessness is allowed.

“Hey,” Eli agrees.

He’s not wearing the hearing protection anymore, but still has the sunglasses on.

Kent’s sunglasses, actually. The custom ones that Oakley made in Aces colors just for him. They have little 90’s on the frames and everything.

They look good on Eli.

“You’re here,” Kent says inanely.

“I am.”

“Are you okay? I mean. Is it okay that you’re here?”

Eli laughs a little. “I’m _fine._ I even checked with my doctor to make sure. And Alex and Jessica helped get me here. It’s been very low-stress all things considered.”

“You’re welcome,” Alex says from Jeff’s stall. She’s curled up like a cat with a highlighter tucked behind one ear and a large, beat up, paperback book of some kind, ruthlessly folded in half, in her hands.

“Thank you,” Kent says solemnly.

“Shh,” Alex says. “I’m reading.”

Kent rolls his eyes and drops his towel.

He gives the room another glance but most of the guys are doing their own thing, or are occupied with trying to entice Hawke away from Rads. Regardless, he waits until he’s dressed again to pull Eli up and into a hug.

“I can’t believe you came.”

Eli pushes Kent’s damp hair back off his forehead. “You really thought I was going to let you do this alone?”

Uh. _Yeah?_

“You were in the _hospital_ this morning,” Kent reminds him.

“I’m not right now, though.”

“But you acted like you didn’t want to come. We didn’t even talk about it.”

“Well yeah. Because if I’d told you I wanted to go, you would have argued with me and it would have been exhausting. Now I’m here and everything is fine and we skipped fighting about it.”

“Right.”

“Kent,” Jessica yells, poking her head in from the hallway, “media is ready when you are. Alexei and Derek you have ten minutes.”

“Oh, shit,” Rads says, and stands to finish stripping and hit the shower.

Asher takes the opportunity to cuddle Hawke.

“Wait,” Kent says, as Eli calls Hawke away from a disgruntled Asher ( _but, Eli, I just now got my turn with her!_ ). “You’re coming? To the press conference?”

Kent rakes his hair back and settles his favorite Aces snapback on his head.

Eli gives him a patient look.

“We’re in this together. Like a team, right? What kind of teammate would I be if I let you deal with those vultures alone?”

Kent refuses to get choked up before he has to go talk to the press.

“Oh,” he says.

There’s been enough time since the final buzzer that he doesn’t really have an excuse for his breathlessness anymore.

“Boys,” Jessica says from the doorway.

“Right. Sorry. Okay.”

Kent offers his arm to Eli on the side opposite of Hawke.

“Ready?”

***

Security takes them in a golf cart to the largest conference room, where Kent then goes to sit at the table front and center, backgrounded by the wall with the Aces logo all over it, squinting against a flurry of flash photography from a hoard of journalists. He should have requested more time so he could put his suit back on. He’s still sweating and his damp hair is starting to drip down the back of his neck.

He pulls the notecards Jessica made for him from his pocket and clears his throat, glancing over toward the door where Eli is standing, smiling at him.

He taps the cards against the table and leans forward so he can talk into the microphone. He hates that press conferences are always configured this way, where he always feels like he has to hunch over in order to be heard.

He notices absently that his hands are shaking.

He clears his throat.

“Uh, hi,” he says, like an idiot.

“I’ve prepared a statement. And I’ll take a few questions afterward, but I’d appreciate it if you keep the focus of any questions on me, hockey, and the Aces organization. Specifically, going forward, I would also like to ask that you respect Elijah’s privacy. As a public figure, I understand that I can’t expect complete anonymity, but Eli is just a college student.”

Kent glances up.

“He doesn’t have a PR team or media training or any of that. I signed up for this, but he didn’t, and his recovery is going to be difficult enough without people following him around with cameras. So. If people can—“ he consults the card again, “uh, respect that, I’d appreciate it. Thank you.”

He looks toward Jessica, who’s squinting at him.

Ok, so he went a little off script, there.

He shuffles his first prompt card to the back of the stack.

“Last week,” he continues, “my privacy was invaded in a completely unacceptable fashion when someone posted a video online of my interactions with hospital personnel at Texas Presbyterian. My boyfriend—“ he manages not to stumble over the word, which is a small victory in and of itself “—Eli, had been placed in an induced coma after an accident and I was—“

He glances over at Eli, who’s biting his bottom lip.

Eli nods encouragingly.

“I was pretty upset.”

He swaps cards again, glancing up a little ruefully at the reporters.

“Which you know is an understatement if you’ve seen the video.”

That gets a few laughs.

He sees Jessica shaking her head at him out of the corner of his eye, though, and he sighs.

Right.

Stick to the cards.

“Anyway, uh. What should have been a deeply personal conversation is now public knowledge, and frankly I hadn’t anticipated having this conversation so early in my career.”

That gets a few murmurs.

“I’ve never wanted to be the first out—“ he swallows, because this is the word that always gets stuck in his throat— “uh, the first out gay NHL player. I don’t think of myself as a role model or want to be the face of a movement, but I realize that, due to circumstances being what they are, people are going to treat me like a representative for the gay community and I want to apologize in advance if I’m disappointing in that role. I’ll-um. I’ll try to do my best, though.”

He swaps cards.

He knows he’s supposed to be glancing up and making eye contact and doing other things Jessica has tried to coach him through during media training days, things that make him more personable and engaging and shit, but he just keeps reading because that’s the best he can do right now.

“My team is and has been supportive, several of them knew about my relationship with Eli before that video was taken, and I appreciate the environment of acceptance and encouragement that the Ace’s coaching staff and management team have cultivated.”

He manages a nod in Jessica’s direction.

“I’m proud to call Vegas my home. And I’m especially thankful for the fans who’ve been supportive online, and in person tonight outside the stadium as well as in the seats. I’m glad we could get a win for you tonight.”

Card swap.

“But that being said, I am an athlete. And I don’t want conversations about my sexuality or the relationship I’m in to interfere with my job.”

He takes a breath.

“I’m gay”—he says it with more confidence this time—“and I have a boyfriend, but I just want to play hockey. So I’d appreciate it if, from here on out, media outlets could just let me live my life without speculation or judgement”—not likely, but it’s worth a try—“and treat Elijah and I like any other couple in the organization. Thank you.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before questions are being shouted at him, and Jessica steps forward.

Everyone quiets down.

She has that affect.

“Kent?” She says.

“Uh. Right.”

He points to a guy close to the front of the room wearing a Washington Post hat.

“Mr. Parson,” the man says, “you mentioned that you didn’t anticipate having this conversation so early in your career—does that mean you were anticipating having it at all while still playing professional hockey?”

“Not initially, no. I’d decided pretty early on that I wouldn’t come out until after I was retired.”

“Why’s that?” another man calls.

Kent laughs.

Or he tries to. It maybe comes out more like a verbal grimace.

“Were you _watching_ the game tonight?”

Jessica clears her throat and he rocks back in his chair for a moment, taking off his hat, running a hand through his hair, and then replacing it.

He leans forward again, fingers damp, exhaling.

“I knew there would be people who would respond badly, if I came out. That best case it would be a distraction and worst case it would mean the end of my career. I didn’t know how much opposition I’d face and, up until I met Eli, I wasn’t willing to find out.”

“Are you saying your boyfriend pressured you to come out?” A woman near the back of the room shouts.

“No. Definitely not. I just hadn’t ever considered that an option before. If I wasn’t with someone, I didn’t have a reason to take that risk.”

“But you _were_ more recently planning to come out prior to retirement? Since you’re currently in a relationship?”

“I was, yes. I’d already spoken to management and was tentatively thinking about going public in two years.”

“Why two years?”

“Well, I wanted at least one cup first.”

That gets a couple laughs.

He points to a woman with bright red lipstick in the third row.

“Can you comment on your expectations for the All Star Game this weekend? Have you spoken to other players in the league since coming out?”

“Oh,” he glances at Jessica, who nods.

“I’m no longer attending the All Star Game for personal reasons,” —Kent is thankful Eli had slept through most of that discussion at the hospital, where Kent and Eli’s mom had a perfectly civil whispered argument over whether Kent really had the capability to care for Eli during the week or so it would take for Eli to regain complete independence again— “but I’m sure Rushy and Matts are going to represent our team really well. As for speaking with other players, I’ve received, well—honestly a pretty unbelievable amount of supportive text messages and phone calls and snapchats and whatever from guys all over the world that I’ve played with or against. So that’s. I appreciate that.”

He points to another woman, this one tiny, who’s standing on her chair in order to see him. She reminds him of one of Eli’s Morgans.

“I know you said no questions about Eli,” she says, and Kent sighs. “But there’s a lot of speculation online, and I was just wondering if you could comment on how you two met?”

Which. That—he glances at Eli, who grins—that he can do.

Kent laughs, rubbing his palms together, and ducks his head.

“Uh. I guess I can. Eli sure likes to talk about it, anyway. Mostly because it’s embarrassing. For me.”

And he realizes that, somehow, several of the journalists are only just now noticing that Eli is in the room. Which is dumb because A. Eli is probably the most beautiful person ever, how do you just _miss_ him? and B. there’s a _whole German Shepherd_ standing right next to him which isn’t exactly inconspicuous.

“Hey,” Kent says sharply as people shift to take pictures of Eli. “Did you not hear what I literally just said like five seconds ago?”

The camera clicks die down.

“Okay, so. We met at the practice facility, actually. I, well I was running a little late, and I parked in a handicapped spot.”

“Two!” Eli yells.

Kent makes a face. “Okay. I parked across two handicapped spots.”

“The only two at the north entrance,” Eli adds.

“Do _you_ want to come tell the story?”

Eli demurs, laughing.

And Kent realizes he’s smiling despite the fact that his hands are still shaking.

“Anyway. It’s really—it’s not funny. It was a shitty—er, bad, thing to do. It was selfish and entitled and,” he glances up, trying make eye contact with a few of the video cameras, “it’s really important that disabled people have access to parking like that, so even if you don’t mean anything malicious by it and you’re just in a hurry or whatever, you should never take a handicapped space unless you need it.”

“Two,” Eli repeats, barely audible.

“And you definitely shouldn’t take two spaces,” Kent adds, rolling his eyes.

“So. Eli came to the end of Aces practice and I tried to pet his service dog like an idiot” he looks up at the cameras again “that’s also not good, by the way. You should always ask first because most service dogs can’t be distracted if they’re working. But anyway, I was basically striking out in terms of making a good impression. Once he confronted me about the handicapped space I apologized and Jeff convinced him that I wasn’t actually an asshole and he let me take him to lunch and we just—became friends. After that.”

“When did your romantic relationship start?” a guy from the back calls.

“I don’t think I want to comment on that. But I knew pretty much immediately that I, uh—that he was—“ Kent gestures for a minute, trying to think of a less horribly cliche way of saying ‘special,’ without success—“special,” he finishes, wincing a little.

He glances down at the final prompt card.

“Can we refocus here on like, questions about hockey and the organization?”

“Mr. Parson,” a man in the second row calls. “Are you worried that your coming out will affect team dynamics?”

And thank god, a question Jessica had prepared him for.

“Of course I’m worried about that. That’s the primary reason I hadn’t publicly come out until this point. But Hockey is my focus and will stay my focus. I think the game tonight illustrated that there will be some obstacles, but I’m lucky to be part of a team that’s willing to face those obstacles with me.”

Jessica nods approvingly, and Kent starts to relax.

_Maybe this won’t be so bad after all_ , he thinks.

He should know better.

“Speaking of the game,” a guy says, well, leers, really, “can you talk about what happened in the first period?”

Kent opens the water bottle beside the microphone and takes a sip, mostly as a stalling method.

“It took us a while to settle into the first period, to focus on connecting passes and finding our chemistry. There were—I don’t think some of us were fully prepared for some of the things said on the ice and we took some penalties we shouldn’t have.”

Understatement.

“But we got our heads right before the second and came back strong and I’m really proud of the effort we put into the third. Rushy had thirty-two saves and Matts really showcased his abilities as a playmaker, tonight.”

“You mentioned there were things said on the ice,” the Washington Post guy says, “Things like what?”

“I’m not comfortable repeating them.”

“The refs didn’t make any unsportsmanlike conduct calls,” a woman points out.

“No,” Kent agrees. “They didn’t.”

“Is that a criticism of—“

“Next question,” Jessica interrupts.

Things only go downhill from there.

After the fourth person has essentially repackaged the same question (will Kent’s sexuality be a distraction/problem/spectacle affecting his performance/the Aces/the league) trying to get an answer other than ‘I’m here to focus on hockey and my team is as well and I appreciate the Aces organization’s support despite any obstacles my coming out may produce,’ Kent is 98% done.

And then the leering guy from before pushes him to 99%.

“You keep saying that you can’t control how other teams or fans react to your sexuality, and that you recognize the team is going to face obstacles. But if you knew it was going to be controversial, why come out in the middle of the season knowing this could affect your playoff run?”

“I’m sorry,” Kent says tightly, “Can you restate the question?”

Jessica starts to move forward again, but Kent holds up his hand and—yeah, she’s probably going to kill him for that, but she goes still.

“I mean,” the guy says patiently, like he’s talking a child, “As a young captain with a history of questionable, some would say ‘selfish’ behavior—in fact, I think you yourself said you had a tendency to be selfish earlier—do you think your actions were impulsive when—“

And there’s that last 1%.

“Okay, no,” Kent interrupts, and the guy smiles, sharp and mean, and clearly his objective was to get Kent to go off-script. Which. Congratulations. Objective achieved.

“First of all,I didn’t come out. I was _outed_. And yeah. It absolutely was impulsive and selfish of me to tell the people at the hospital that Eli was my boyfriend. Because he was in a _coma_ and I was going to lose my damn mind if I couldn’t see him. I wasn’t thinking about obstacles or playoffs or hockey or anything except for the fact that the person I care about most in the entire world was—that he might not—oh my god, yeah, it was _so_ selfish. But I won’t apologize for it because none of my teammates would be expected to do anything different if they were in my situation and it was their wife or girlfriend. Jesus.”

Jessica’s hand had closed over his shoulder at some point, firm, but not painful.

She waits until he’s finished talking and then says, “No further questions for Kent. Derek and Alexei will be available momentarily to discuss tonight’s game, and then Coach will wrap things up for us.”

She emphasizes ‘tonight’s game.’

Kent stands on autopilot and lets her push him toward the door, like he needs any incentive to go grab the hand Eli is holding out to him and escape into the hallway.

“Well,” Eli says after they’ve walked a few feet. “That was shitty.”

Kent stops to lean against the wall and lets his head fall back against the cinderblocks, groaning.

“I shouldn’t have let him get to me.”

“He was a dick,” Eli says, rubbing one hand up and down Kent’s arm. “You hung in there longer than I would have. You want to go home? You need to eat something. I made a new kind of chicken chili for you to try.”

“Yeah,” Kent says, not moving. “We should go.”

He takes another moment, thankful that Eli doesn’t push, and then straightens.

“Are _you_ okay?” it occurs to him to ask. “You’re probably really tired, huh? Let’s get out of here.”

“Not _that_ tired,” Eli says, leaning into him. “But yes, we should definitely get out of here.”

Kent doesn’t get it at first.

Until Eli glances around surreptitiously—the only person is the hall is the security guard with the golf cart waiting for them to get their shit together—and sneaks a hand up the back of his shirt, palm cool against his sweaty skin. He uses his hand as a brace to go up on his toes and bite, soft, just a tease, at Kent’s ear lobe.

“Oh,” Kent says. “ _Oh_. Is that, like. Allowed?

“Yep. I asked the doctor and everything. Sex is definitely allowed. As long as we’re careful.”

Eli throws a hand up to his forehead, pretending to swoon.

“Can you be gentle with me, Mr. Parson?”

Yes.

Kent can be gentle.

Eli laughs at whatever Kent’s face is doing.

“So,” he says, slipping his hand from Kent’s back to his side, walking his fingers absently up and down the ladder of Kent’s ribs. “Home? Chili?”

“Yeah,” Kent agrees. “And then I want to find out what publication that guy works for and make sure he’s banned from any future Aces press conferences.”

“Sure. But maybe we can save that until after we’ve had a couple orgasms.”

“A couple? That’s seems a little ambitious.”

“Dude. I’m literally a teenager and you’re twenty. It’s not ambitious. It’s realistic.”

Kent grins. “Oh the places you’ll go with warming lube and a can-do attitude?”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Wait,” Kent says. “Did you just ‘dude’ me while talking about sex?”

“I’m thinking of adding it to my list of pet names: Dude, sweetheart, honey, bro.”

“HoneyBro. I approve of HoneyBro.”

“Mmm,” Eli leans up to kiss him. “I like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log: 
> 
> Sorry it's a day late! It really should have been later, honestly, but it's amazing what you can accomplish when you tell yourself that for the next 24 hours you can either work on your exams rationale or write a new fic chapter. Procrastination for the win/fail there, I guess. Depending on how you view things. I really do need to get back to my "real" work, though (hopefully more productively now that I've had a creative break). 
> 
> In other academic news, Comics Studies Here and Now (a pretty significant publication in the Comics studies world!) came out last week, and Yours Truly wrote chapter 15! Some of it is available through the Amazon sneak peak, but not all of it. It's hella expensive because it's a textbook, but if you're at all interested in the field, you should totally request that your library order it, because it's honestly a really wonderful anthology.
> 
> I hope everyone is having a nice day and I'll see you next week!


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: Kent and Eli have their first fight and they're both a little dumb about it. Things aren't entirely resolved by the end of the chapter, but they're getting there.

The next week is…

Well.

Idyllic, might be the word.

Kent takes Hawke to run with him in the mornings, and stickhandles tennis balls around the house for her and Kit to chase in the afternoons. He drives Eli to his therapy appointments and drops him off and picks him up from class. They cook together, on camera and off, and cuddle on the couch while watching the All Star Game coverage, even though Eli technically isn’t supposed to have screen time yet ( _“Kent, no. Don’t turn it off. I’m not looking at the TV, I’m looking at the wall_ next _to the TV!_ ”)

After the second grocery delivery where Eli says probably unkind things in Spanish and bemoans a lack of both plantanos and culture in the Las Vegas area, Kent google translates “plantanos” and then sacrifices fifteen minutes of selfies in the line at CVS to purchase a dozen bananas on his way home from the gym. When he proudly presents them to Eli, however, Eli is confused for several seconds and then just…laughs.

Uproariously.

For like, a while.

“Oh my god,” Eli says. “You silly gringo. You brought me home bananas.”

“Uh, yeah? Because you keep complaining that Amazon won’t deliver them with our other groceries? Which seems dumb, by the way, because I don’t even like bananas but I know they’re super common.”

Eli just laughs harder.

“Is that not—google said that platanos was Spanish for bananas.”

Kent pulls up the search screen on his phone from earlier that day.

“Look. See? Platanos. Bananas. I don’t—“ Kent shoves his phone back in his pocket and crosses his arms, “ _why are you laughing at me_?!”

“Oh, no,” Eli says, still giggling, but grabbing one of Kent’s wrists. “No, no. I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’m not laughing at you.”

“Well you’re definitely not laughing _with_ me.” Kent mutters, pulling away from him.

Okay. He doesn’t really pull away. Just kind of pretends to. Because Eli’s balance has improved but it’s not back to normal yet and the last thing he wants to do is contribute to a fall. That and the fact that if Eli is touching him, even if Kent is kind of pissed at him, he doesn’t ever want Eli to _stop_ touching him. So.

“No, I know,” Eli says, clinging a little harder anyway. “Hey. I’m sorry. I love that you brought me bananas.”

He kisses Kent’s chin. Goes up on his toes to reach his mouth. “I really do. Thank you.”

Kent is mollified.

“Then why are you laughing at me? I was trying to do a thing. A nice thing.”

“I know, baby. I know you were. It’s just—“

He badly suppresses another laugh.

“I meant plantains. In the Dominican Republic platanos are plantains—that’s what mama and abuela call them so I do too. Bananas are guineos.”

“Then why did google say—“

“Because, in most other Spanish-speaking places platanos are bananas. You didn’t do anything wrong, it was really sweet, just…funny. And I need to call mama and tell her right now because this is literally the cutest thing.”

He gets another kiss for his trouble and then is left glaring at a dozen bananas while Eli alternates between cooing and cackling loudly in Spanish from the guest bedroom.

Great.

Kent may or may not spend 15 minutes locked in the bathroom later that evening feverishly googling where to find plantains in Las Vegas. He has a whispered phone conversation in the closet with the owner of a Dominican restaurant on the strip which serves various plantain dishes, agrees to pay what is probably an exorbitant price for a box of them—available for pickup the following day—and then tries to exit the bathroom casually.

Eli asks him if they need to start upping the fiber content in Kent’s food.

Kent throws a banana at him.

The following day, Kent picks up his order on his way home from the gym, to the extreme amusement of the restaurant owner who apparently feels the need to be present when Kent Parson of the Las Vegas Aces comes to collect a box full of plantains for his boyfriend.

She calls him a good boy and she’s definitely laughing when he leaves.

He manfully ignores it.

He’s expecting more laughter when he arrives home and presents Eli, napping on the couch, with his spoils, except instead Eli just stares at the box in his lap for a minute and then his face kind of squinches up and he bites his lip and—

Well shit.

“Hey, no. Don’t—hey,” Kent says, shifting the plantains off Eli’s lap so he can pull Eli into his.

“I don’t understand. They’re plantains! You _said_ plantains. Are they the wrong kind? Are there _kinds_ of plantains? Is this why the lady at the restaurant was laughing at me?”

And Eli just sort of collapses into his chest and he might actually be laughing now rather than crying but Kent can’t tell.

“Okay,” he says, rubbing Eli’s back with one hand and cupping the nape of his neck with the other. “You need to talk to me because you’re kind of freaking me out.”

“I’m sorry,” Eli says somewhere in the vicinity of Kent’s neck. “I’m fine. I am.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I’m just extra emotional or whatever right now. I can’t help it. Concussion. And _you_ —you’re so—“

And then they’re making out, apparently.

So. The plantains are probably okay, then.

Eli makes them tostones with dinner—which is definitely not nutritionist approved but really, really, good, and then he makes mangú with breakfast the following morning and lets Kent help with the mashing and there’s just a lot of love and plantains and kisses in his life for the next several days.

It’s…a really good week.

But then the break is over and it’s February and Kent leaves for a roady with the team and comes back to an Eli who is struggling through assignments that are taking three times as long to complete as they did the semester before. An Eli who sometimes mixes up his words and doesn’t want to use Hawke for balance even though he still needs to. An Eli who’s getting stress migraines that are only exacerbated by the fact that the migraines make him take even longer on homework and papers and he’s turning in assignments late or incomplete and he won’t tell Kent how many seizures he’s had, but Kent has been present for two in the three weeks since Eli was released from the hospital so he knows it’s probably not a _good_ number _._ And he doesn’t want to push, because Eli isn’t a kid, and he wants to allow him his autonomy or whatever and he _definitely_ doesn’t want to scare him away back to his dorm by stifling him, but.

But he _cares_.

So much.

And most of the time Eli doesn’t let him show how much he cares, which, maybe Eli is completely normal and Kent is just clingy and overbearing, but after two more weeks of Eli getting more and more frustrated—stressed often to the point of tears—and not letting Kent do anything to _help_ , Kent feels like he’s losing his mind.

He should probably talk to his therapist about it, except he’s already back to seeing her every week again, sometimes more, and they usually spend all their time dealing with hockey stuff.

Because the hockey stuff is…

Bad.

Not his team. Not the Aces. Even the call-ups are mostly behaving themselves. And honestly other teams, as a whole, are too. But there’s usually a handful of guys every game they play who, even if they aren’t being directly malicious, are using the gay thing to try and get penalties. And then there’s the occasional ones who _are_ malicious—who spit venom and make illegal hits and leave him bruised like he’s in the playoffs. Dealing with that every other night is exhausting. Dealing with refs who ignore it all is exhausting. Dealing with media who desperately want to break his Jessica-approved demeanor to talk about the language or the hits or the refs is exhausting, and trying to encourage his team through it—because he’s the captain and they didn’t sign up for any of this shit anyway—that’s exhausting too.

So Kent is dealing with shitty players and shitty refs and shitting media, and then having to put on a good face for his team, and he comes home so, so, tired, and then he has to worry that his boyfriend is slowly killing himself.

It’s not good.

So maybe Kent overreacts one day when he gets home and Eli isn’t there yet even though he should have gotten out of class over an hour ago, and Eli’s phone is going straight to voicemail, the Morgans haven’t seen him, and Eric hasn’t talked to him since the night before.

Kent is seriously considering driving over to campus and—he doesn’t know—wandering around the quad yelling Eli’s name? when the door finally opens.

“Where the _fuck_ have you been?” he says, which is…probably not the best way to start a conversation.

“What?” Eli says, kicking off his shoes. “Shouldn’t you be on your way to the arena?”

“Yeah,” Kent agrees. “I was supposed to leave twenty minutes ago except you weren’t here and you weren’t answering your phone and no one I called had any idea _why_ you weren’t here or answering your phone.”

“The bus was late,” Eli says, still taking off Hawke’s vest like everything is fine and normal, “and my phone died—it’s not a big deal.”

“The fuck do you— _yeah_ , it’s a big deal. You’re over an hour late. And I thought you weren’t taking the bus anymore. We talked about that.”

Eli’s face is starting to go pinched.

“Its hard to be _late_ when we didn’t have plans. And you may have talked _at_ me about not taking the bus anymore, but we didn’t make an agreement.”

“I gave you the number for the car service and put you on my account for a _reason_. This reason. So I wouldn’t have to be sitting here fucking up my schedule on a game night wondering where the hell you are.”

“Oh,” Eli says sharply. “Okay. So this isn’t about you being worried about me, it’s about inconvenience. Because you’ve made me part of your pregame rituals or whatever.”

And that’s. Not true at all.

“ _No_ ,” Kent says. “I put you on my account because everything is hard enough for us without dealing with shitty public transportation and the shitty people who use it.”

Eli sighs, letting his backpack fall off his shoulders and into the crooks of his elbows. He dumps it gently on the floor.

“So poor people.”

“What?”

“The shitty people who use public transportation? You mean poor people. Newsflash, Kent, I _am_ poor people. And I'm not some charity case you can just throw money at.”

“No, you’re not a charity case, you’re my _boyfriend_.”

“So that makes it okay? Well, shit. I guess I don’t get any say in the matter. I can’t take the bus with the peasants anymore because god forbid Kent Parsons’ boyfriend be photographed sitting next to a homeless person.”

“That’s not fair. That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

He means the assholes that Eli complains about, the ones that take the handicapped seats and touch Hawke without asking, the ones that touch _him_ or stare at him or ask what’s wrong with him like that’s somehow an acceptable thing to say to a stranger.

Kent is trying to formulate that into words but he doesn’t get a chance because Eli says, “My head hurts,” and walks toward the guest bedroom.

And that’s just perfect because it seems like any time they disagree about something Eli’s head hurts and that’s the end of things because only an asshole would keep talking after that point.

Apparently Kent is an asshole today.

“Your head always hurts,” Kent says. “And your balance is shit, and your aphasia is fucking up your grades and you’re having more seizures than normal and you’re stressed out all the fucking time. And that sucks. I get it. And I wish I could do something about it, but I can’t. What I _can_ do is get you a car service so you don’t have to deal with the bus, or a new phone that can hold a charge for longer than an hour, or one of those stupid wedge pillows that’s supposed to help with your neck or— with all the other shit we’re dealing with, coming home to you should be the best part of my day but it’s almost worse because you’re so upset all the time and you complain about shit but then you won’t let me do anything to try and _fix_ any of it.”

“I’m sorry this is so hard for you,” Eli snarls and that’s—okay. This is not working.

“Oh my god,” Kent exclaims. “Why are you like this? You’re not _listening_ to me, you _stubborn asshole._ ”

And Eli might not be listening but he’s definitely crying now.

Fuck.

He made Eli cry.

_He_ did that.

Jesus.

“You should go,” Eli says lowly, smearing the back of one hand over his eyes. “You’re going to be late for warmups.”

He’s right.

Kent walks out the door because if he stays any longer he’s going to say something he doesn’t mean. Well. Something _else_.

***

Eli doesn’t come to the game.

Kent doesn’t exactly play like shit but he’s definitely off. Luckily, Matts is on fire—getting his first hat trick as an Ace—and they win handedly. Also luckily, the Avs don’t seem interested in taking advantage of the gay thing either, or Kent probably would have just said fuck it and punched someone in the face.

The problem is, the person who probably most deserves a punch to the face right now is him.

Because yeah, Eli is emotional and dramatic but he’s also an eighteen-year-old college student with a concussion and a seizure disorder currently recovering from a _second_ traumatic brain injury while trying to deal with the fact that his boyfriend is a newly-out professional hockey player. Like. He has an excuse for occasional irrational or frustrating behavior and Kent throwing their circumstances at him, like it’s somehow Eli’s fault that Eli’s recovery is slow and he’s overwhelmed and stressed out isn’t fair.

He tells Jeff as much as they’re showering, dragging out putting his clothes on because he’s honestly a little afraid to go home.

Because what if Eli isn’t there.

“You just need to talk to him,” Jeff says. “And apologize. Probably apologize first before the talking, actually.”

“Yeah, but like. Aren’t you supposed to give people gifts when you apologize? To prove you mean it? I feel like that would just make things worse in this scenario.”

“Maybe?” Jeff says. “I usually do, but not really expensive stuff. Just stuff Alex likes. Anthologies on bat migratory patterns. A bottle of wine. Debts of servitude. Sexual favors.”

Kent coughs on a laugh. 

“But for real,” Jeff continues, “maybe you could get him some more plantains? That seemed to work out well for you.”

It definitely had.

Martin Cook, or Cookie, one of the call-ups who will probably stick around considering his numbers, makes a confused noise next to them. “Can’t you just get him flowers or chocolates or something you’d get a normal girl. Or shoes, right? I saw that instagram post.”

Kent pauses.

Jeff makes a resigned noise.

“So,” Rads says casually, pulling on his shirt. “Because Eli is gay Kent can just treat him like a girl?”

“Uh,” Cookie says, suddenly noticing a good portion of the locker room’s attention is on him. “Yeah?”

Logan Roy, or Moose, the other call-up (Large, Canadian, the nickname had followed him since juniors, apparently), shakes his large Canadian head. He may be new too, but he at least knows that’s not the right answer.

“Kenny is gay,” Tater points out.

“Huh?” Cookie says.

“Kenny is gay,” Tater repeats. “We treat him like girl too?”

“What, no. That’s different.”

“How?” Jeff asks.

“You know,” Cookie says, gesturing with his nearly empty gatorade bottle. “Kent is Kent. He’s—“

“What?” Rushy says innocently. “Like, the guy in the relationship?”

“Yeah,” Cookie says, relieved.

“Oh,” Kent says, because it’s about time he says _something_. “So because you think I fuck Eli, that makes him the girl?”

“Uh—“

“If that’s the case,” Kent says, with a gentleness he doesn’t at all feel. “I have some shocking news for you.”

“Wait,” Moose says. “Does that mean—“

“If I recall,” Nicky muses, toweling off his hair, “Kent said he and Eli take turns being the little spoon.”

“Oh, my god,” Kent mutters. “That wasn’t what I was talking about.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure Kent said he was the _knife_ ,” Asher says.

“What would that even mean in this context?” Jeff asks.

“The _point,_ ” Kent says, exasperated, “is that Eli isn’t any less of a man because of the clothes he wears or what he likes in bed. He’s a person, not a stereotype. So when I’m apologizing for being shitty I want to treat him like a _person_.”

“While we’re being progressive and shit,” Jeff says dryly, “I’d also like to point out that _women_ are people too.”

“This is good point,” Tater agrees wisely.“Some women not like flowers. Or shoes. Or Cookie’s face. Is—“ he glances at Oshi and says something in Russian.

“Personal preference,” Oshi supplies.

“Yes,” Tater says solemnly. “is personal preference.”

The laughter starts.

Cookie shoves his pink face through the collar of his shirt and flees the locker room.

Asher nods after him, one eyebrow raised and Kent waves him away, smiling slightly as Asher jogs after Cookie. The kid is clearly just a little ignorant, not malicious, and while some embarrassment will probably do him some good in this case, Kent doesn’t want him to feel like the team is judging him. Asher will make sure he’s taken the lesson in good humor and, if he hasn’t, Kent will talk to him.

After procrastinating for several more minutes, he packs up. He stops at CVS for some dog treats, because that’s one of the few things that Eli has never gotten mad about him buying, and then, driving slower than the speed limit and wondering if maybe he should stop and top off his 2/3 full tank of gas, he heads home.

He’s expecting the apartment to be dark. For Eli to be in the guest bedroom or maybe not even there at all. And Kent is trying to make the best of it—at least he’ll have the rest of the night and early morning to organize his thoughts and his words and maybe not fuck up too badly when he tries to apologize.

But the lights are on when he gets home.

Just the under-the-counter kitchen lights and the dim recessed lighting in the living room. But it’s more of a welcome than he thought he’d get. The guest bedroom door is closed, but Eli’s keys are in the entryway bowl, his backpack is on one of the bar stools and Hawk’s harnesses, both of them, are hanging on the hooks by the door. So. At least he stayed.

Kent drops his bag in the hall, downs a glass of iced gatorade, and then pushes open his own bedroom door, toeing off his shoes and tossing his hat toward the chair and—

Hawke sits up, stretching, and Kent freezes, hopping on one foot mid-way through pulling off a sock.

Because Eli is in his bed.

Their bed.

And with Hawke’s movement, Eli is propping himself up a little and squinting against the light coming in from the living room.

“Uh,” Kent says, “hey.”

Eli blinks at him and then rolls back over, pulling the duvet with him.

Which.

Okay.

Kent finishes getting undressed, turns off the lights and then texts Jeff, a little frantically, asking for advice. He takes another shower as a stalling method, brushes his teeth for well over the dentist recommended two minutes and then sits on the toilet playing angry birds for several more minutes. Jeff doesn’t answer because he’s probably asleep like a sane person.

Resigned, Kent creeps back into the bedroom and sits on the edge of the mattress.

Eli is awake, but he ignores Kent as he slides under the covers on his side of the bed.

Kent is exhausted, but the tension is palpable, and even the animals can’t seem to settle. After several minutes of Eli shifting, Kit making annoyed noises, and Hawke getting up to re-circle occasionally at their feet, Kent sighs, sitting up.

It feels like there’s an ocean of cool sheets between them.

“I can go. If you want. To the guest bedroom. Or even to Swoops’ place, if that’s—”

Eli sits up too with a disbelieving noise. “What the fuck? Go to Jeff’s? I’m not—“ he pauses. “If you want to be alone, then fine,but _I’ll_ leave. This is your home“

“No! I don’t. Please. Stay. I’m just. Not ready yet.”

“What?”

“I really am sorry,” Kent says, wishing there was a little light so he can see Eli’s expression. “But I haven’t had a chance—I need time to figure out how to apologize. And try to explain what I meant better. ”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I mean. I’m still mad at you.”

“That’s fine. You should be.”

“But I know I overreacted and I haven’t been. The easiest person to be around. Lately. And I know you need time to process things and get your words right. So.”

“Yeah. I do.”

It’s quiet save for Kit who’s started up a low creaky purr up by the headboard.

“So. Is it—do you want me to sleep with you in here?” Kent asks.

“Kent.” Eli says patiently. “I’m in your bed. If I didn’t want to sleep next to you I wouldn’t be here.”

“Oh.”

Kent is so relieved he doesn’t know what to do with himself for a minute. So he just continues to sit there. Like an idiot.

“Oh my god,” Eli says, laying back down. “Come _here,_ youmoron.”

Kent obeys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out the folks in the Haus Discord chat for noting that there have not been nearly enough platanos in this story/prompting Kent's gringo fail (followed quickly by his gringo win). You guys are awesome. <3 Also, guess who's making tostones tonight?
> 
>  
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> Sorry this is late! I was so focused on getting my rationale finished and sent in (which it is! hooray!) that I completely lost track of what day it was.
> 
> In additional academic news, I got all A's for my final semester of coursework (a second hooray!) and my student evaluations were all entirely glowing this semester (a third hooray!). I've yet to have a student say anything bad about my classes, but it's usually a mix of "agrees" and "strongly agrees" in term of questions about my performance, lesson plans, exams, etc. This semester almost every question had all "strongly agree"s with only two "agrees" across the whole spectrum of questions, and then they all wrote the most wonderful things in the comments sections about how I was so passionate about the content and always available outside of class and made them feel comfortable during discussion. But more importantly, there were so many who said comics helped them understand concepts that they'd struggled with in the past, or that their paper-writing skills had really improved because the content was more interesting than what they were used to working with, or that they utilized the stuff they learned about graphic narrative in other classes as well, and there were a couple who even listed specific titles that they found impactful (Check Please! was mentioned twice!). So this is literally me living the dream. I had a blast this semester, but knowing my students found the class equally as enjoyable/helpful is so damn rewarding. I'm so happy.


	45. Chapter 45

Eli wakes up before Kent, which isn’t exactly a surprise considering how long Kent took before coming to bed the previous night.

Kent isn’t wrapped around him quite as thoroughly as usual, but he is tucked up against his back, knees butting up behind Eli’s, the fingers of one hand curled loosely in the fabric of Eli’s shirt.

He extricates himself easily enough and takes Hawke out to do her business.

When he gets back upstairs, he opens the door to a rumpled, slightly frantic, Kent coming out of the guest bedroom

“Oh,” Kent says, trying and failing to look casual. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Eli agrees. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” He says, too quickly. He seems to realize this.

“I just needed to check,” he murmurs, running his fingers through his hair.

“Check what?”

“I woke up and you were gone. So I need to make sure that—“ He sighs.

“I needed to see if your stuff was still here. Your clothes. Señor Fox. Hawke’s things.”

Hawke recognizes her name and wags her tail helpfully.

It whacks Eli on the thigh.

He takes off her leash so she can go give Kent a proper morning greeting and tries not to find the bright flush riding high on Kent’s cheekbones incredibly, horribly, endearing.

He is not successful.

“I wouldn’t just leave,” Eli says.

“I didn’t think you would,” Kent says. “Not really. I just. I don’t know how this works.”

“How what works?”

“Fighting. In a relationship. And I’ve heard stories from the guys—but I know we’re not like them. I just don’t. Uh. Have a playbook, here.”

Playbook.

Jesus.

“I mean. Neither do I,” Eli points out.

He moves into the kitchen to pour a gatorade over ice because Kent is a terrible influence and despite the fact that it’s only February Las Vegas has apparently decided to skip spring and go straight to summer.

“You’re my first everything, remember?”

Kent doesn’t even attempt to suppress a smug look.

“Yeah.”

“So I think we can just. Decide how we fight? Together?”

“Oh. That’s—yeah. Okay.”

“So,” Eli says, “I don’t have class until 11. You want to talk this through now or do you need more time to think?”

Kent straightens from where’s he’s petting Hawke.

“It’s Thursday,” he points out, like he’s trying not to cause problems.

“Yep,” Eli agrees.

“Isn’t your English class at 10 on Tuesdays and Thursdays?”

“It was. I withdrew from the class. Emailed my advisor and the registrar last night. The papers for that class were causing me the most problems. I think I can handle the rest of my work load a lot better if I don’t have to worry about that one anymore.”

Kent looks like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to be happy about that.

“You’re allowed to be happy about that,” Eli says.

Kent laughs—a small, but real thing—and moves around the island to wrap Eli in a hug.

“Good,” he says into his hair, and then they stand there for a minute, just sort of breathing and being solidly together.

Eli touches his cold glass to Kent’s neck and Kent bites his ear, gently, in retaliation.

“I’m ready to talk now, I think,” Kent says. “If you want to. We should probably eat something first, though, so you can take your pills.”

“True. Do you have practice today?”

“Not until 11:30. Oh, hey—“ Kent brightens, “that means I can drop you off on the way. Or.” He clarifies, “If you want, I can drop you off on the way?”

“Nice save. That works for me. Pancakes first?”

“Pancakes and then talking?” Kent clarifies, like he’s preparing himself for battle.

“Pancakes and then talking,” Eli agrees. “I need to use up the last of those frozen bananas.”

Kent groans. “Bananas? Again?”

“You’re the one who bought them.”

“Because I though you _wanted_ them. The whole dozen cost like. Three dollars. Just throw whatever is left out.”

“We do not waste food in this household, Kent Parson.”

Kent made an aggrieved noise. “Can they at least be peanut butter banana pancakes?”

“Deal.”

**

Eli makes peanut butter banana pancakes, they watch ESPN while they eat and then Kent cleans the kitchen afterward so Eli can shower.

When Eli returns to the living room, Kent is sitting on the couch, television off, glaring at his phone like it has personally offended him.

“Everything okay?” Eli asks.

“Yeah. Just. Trying to organize my thoughts.”

“Oh. Ok.”

Eli doesn’t know if he should sit down next to him or not.

“Are you ready to talk?”

“I think so. You want to sit or—“

“Yeah. Okay.”

Eli sits.

“Cool,” Kent says, nodding.

“Cool.” Eli agrees.

Eli bites his lip.

“We’re really shitty at this.”

Kent exhales, half laugh, half something else. What, Eli isn’t sure.

“We really are.”

“Should we talk about that first maybe?” Eli asks. “Make like, rules about how we fight?”

“Oh, uh. Sure. Here, let me—“

Kent gets up to retrieve the little whiteboard he keeps in the hall closet for thinking out plays. He uses the cuff of his hoodie to erase what’s already on it and snags a marker from one of the kitchen drawers. He sets the whiteboard on the coffee table and then kneels on the floor, writing across the top in all caps: RULES FOR FIGHTING. Then he sits back on his heels, looking pleased with himself.

“Okay,” he says and Eli tries not to laugh because he’s got his Captain Voice on and he probably doesn’t even realize it.

“Rule number one,” Eli says, “No yelling.”

Kent blinks at him. “You were yelling last night. We were both yelling last night.”

“I know. And it was awful. And I don’t want to do it again. Didn’t you hate that?”

“Yeah,” Kent agrees. “Yeah, I did. Okay.”

He writes it down. _No yelling_.

“Rule number two,” Kent says, “Nobody leaves. Like. Going for a walk or going to a different room is fine. Or like, going to Jeff’s or the gym or something, to blow off some steam. But not—“

“Home by bedtime?” Eli suggests.

“Yeah. Is that okay?”

“Yeah.”

Kent writes it down. _No leaving—home by bedtime_.

“You realize the assumption there is that this is my home,” Eli points out, a little belatedly. “We never did have that talk after our supposed trial period of me living here.”

Kent winces.

“We can…do that now?”

“Nah,” Eli says. “I’m too spoiled now. I’m not going back to the dorm.”

Kent looks incredibly relieved.

“So,” he prompts. “Rule three?”

“Um. Not letting things like…fester?”

“Fester is a gross word,” Kent says. “Rule number three is that we don’t ever use the word ‘fester.’”

Eli rolls his eyes. “Fine. We don’t let things…build up. We should have talked way before last night.”

Kent nods and writes it down: _No build up_.

“I might need time to pause and think about things, though. So can we have a caveat for that?”

“Maybe just, Rule Number Four: time and space when needed.”

“That works.”

It goes on the board: _Time & space when needed._

“Okay what else?” Eli asks.

“Um,” Kent says. “I’m not really sure how to say this nicely.”

Eli leans forward, elbows braced on his knees.

“Okay. Well. Hit me, I guess.”

“I don’t think you should be able to use your health as a way to get out of arguments.”

Eli bites back the automatic retort.

“That’s…fair. I won’t—I have done that, but I won’t anymore. You need to trust me to do that, though. And believe me if I say I need time because I’m too tired or my head hurts for real. I guess that falls under both number three and four, though.”

Kent hesitates, marker poised over the whiteboard.

“So…should we just know that or do we need to make it a separate rule?”

“Well, we’re running out of space, so.”

“True. Alright. Anything else?”

They both think for a minute.

“I feel like maybe we shouldn’t talk about our private business with other people?” Kent says. “I hear guys bitching about their girlfriends in the locker room and I don’t…I don’t want to be that person. And I really don’t like to think about you talking about me like that either.”

“Uh. I don’t know if—what about Eric? Because I don’t think I can—“

“Oh. That’s true. I might want to talk to Jeff. I have already, actually. Like. Yesterday. About this.”  
Kent goes to run his hand through his hair, forgetting he has a marker in his hand, and ends up with a smear of red on his forehead.

Eli licks his thumb and rubs it off, because he’s helpful like that.

“So,” he says, while Kent swats him away. “Rule number five: No telling people our business unless it’s someone close and it’s done privately?”

_No public diss tracks_ , Kent writes.

Eli resists the urge to kick him.

How is he such a bro and still so damn endearing?

“Anything else?” Kent asks.

“No? We should probably revisit our rules on occasion, though.”

“We should probably also like, schedule time to talk every now and then. So we can make sure nothing is…”

Eli can tell Kent is thinking the word ‘festering’ just from his facial expression.

“…building up,” he finishes.

“What, like a monthly airing of grievances?”

“That sounds bad. More like a good things _and_ bad things maybe? Like when you’re in high school and you have to say one positive thing for every critical thing when you’re editing someone else’s paper?”

“That could work.”

“So,” Kent says, standing and walking over to the calendar by the door. “Same day next month?”

“You want to plan our next talk before we’ve even had this one?”

“Yes?” Kent says, looking unsure.

“Well. Sure.”

Kent draws a big red heart with the Expo marker on the calendar.

“You realize the guys are going to see that and think it’s some special anniversary,” Eli points out. “Or a sex thing.”

“It could be a sex thing,” Kent says hopefully.

“Focus.”

“Right.”

He returns to the living room, sitting on the couch next to Eli instead of the floor this time, and they consider the whiteboard.

“This is all very idealistic,” Kent points out.

“Yup,” Eli agrees. “Shall we try them out?”

“Guess so. Can I go first?”

Eli gestures for him to continue.

“Alright.” Kent consults his phone. “So. I think there were two misunderstandings, last night. The first one is that you thought I have an issue with poor people, or like, think I’m better than them or something, which, I don’t. The second thing was that you thought I was mad you hadn’t made it home because it fucked with my schedule. Which wasn’t true at all. But I realize the way I was phrasing things probably made it seem like it was all about me and less about like. Actual concern for your wellbeing. So I apologize for that.”

“Apology accepted,” Eli says. “Uh. If we’re giving like, overviews, here, I don’t honestly think you have an issue with poor people. Or that you only cared about where I was because of your pregame rituals. I just latched on to those things because I was—I _am_ —frustrated and pissed off and don’t have an outlet. Because skating has always been my outlet and—“ Eli shrugs a little helplessly. “Anyway. You might have phrased things kinda shitty but I was intentionally taking them the wrong way too and that was fucked up. So I apologize for that.”

“Apology accepted,” Kent says promptly.

“You know, maybe we won’t be so bad at this after all,” Eli says.

Kent laughs, a little shakily.

“Well. I’d still like to argue about you taking the bus, so.”

“Why?”

Kent looks stymied. “What?”

“Why don’t you like me taking the bus?”

“Oh.” He consults his phone again. “Okay so. First, _you_ hate taking the bus. You complain about people touching Hawke and taking up the only handicapped spaces. And how waiting outside makes your headaches worse too. And second, if the bus is late you could be late for appointments or class. Which would just add to your stress level. And if I have enough money to make sure that you can comfortably and quickly get to your appointments without you having to walk to different stops or wait outside in bad weather or deal with someone harassing you or Hawke—I just. You’re still recovering. And you’re stressed out all the time and I’m stressed out all the time and this is—this is something I can fix. Pretty easily. I can’t change the refs or the homophobic assholes or the questions I get asked in the postgame interviews. And I can’t change the fact that computer screens hurt your head and words are hard sometimes and your balance gets fucked up when you’re tired, but. I can fix this. And it’s so small and stupid in comparison to all the big things I _can’t_ fix so I don’t understand why you won’t just let me. I want to make sure you recover as fast as possible so you can get back to doing the things you love and not end up complaining through dinner and then crying in the dark because your head is hurting you so badly. I just. I love you _so much_ and I feel like you’re not letting me.”

And that is… a lot.

“Okay.” Eli says.

“Okay what?” Kent says, a little breathless.

“Okay. Those are good points. I’ll start using the car service.”

“Really?”

“Really. But there are two things I need you to do for me.”

“Shoot.”

“Well, first, we probably need to make a distinction between when I want help and when I just want to talk. Because if I’ve had a shitty day, I want to be able to complain to my boyfriend about things without him feeling like he has to fix them all for me. I just want to vent, sometimes. And I don’t want to like, have to censor myself in my own home—” Kent looks pleased at that terminology “—whenever my back is hurting or something because I’m afraid you’ll immediately go on amazon and buy sixteen different products that supposedly help with back pain.”

“That’s fair,” Kent says, looking sheepish.

“Secondly, or maybe just like, part B of that, we need to put a limit on your gift-giving. You’re letting me live with you for free and paying for all of my food, _and_ now my transportation at this point. And I know I’m cooking all your meals, but that’s still not an equitable trade off.”

Kent opens his mouth but Eli holds up a hand.

“And that’s okay. I’m a college student and you’re an… NHL superstar or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” Kent agrees gravely.

Eli rolls his eyes. “I get it. Our monetary situations are crazy different. And I can live with that. But the other gifts…Look, if you want to get me stupidly expensive shit for Christmas or my birthday, fine. But I don’t want you spending more than like, $20 on me outside of that. No more random Louboutin purchases.”

“ _Twenty dollars?_ ” Kent says. “You can’t get _anything_ for twenty dollars.”

“How much were the plantains?” Eli asks.

“Twenty-five.”

“Well, you were swindled, but fine. No more than twenty-five.”

“A hundred,” Kent counters.

“This isn’t a debate.”

“That’s exactly what this is.”

Damn him.

“Forty and I’ll let you go up to one hundred on valentines day.”

“Seventy-five and two hundred on valentines day.”

Eli considers this.

“Fifty, _no more than once a week_ , and one-fifty on valentines day.

“Fifty,” Kent says slowly, “no more than once a week, up to one-fifty on valentines day, and I can give you Aces merchandise or stuff from my sponsors whenever I want.”

“Deal.”

They shake on it.

“Well,” Kent says. “That wasn’t so bad.”

“Right? Look at us. Being all mature and shit.”

Kent reaches a little, tugs a little, and Eli climbs into his lap because he’s accommodating like that.

“Hey, so.” Eli nods to the heart on the calendar. “Scientifically speaking, it _is_ beneficial to positively reinforce good behavior. And we’ve got thirty minutes before we need to leave. If you still wanted this to be a sex thing.”

Kent grins. “I guess we’d better make it a sex thing, then,” he says solemnly. “For science.”

“For science,” Eli agrees, equally grave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, idealistic conflict-resolution for the win!
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> I'm just going to keep bumping the final chapter number up because I am a failure and this fic will never end. I really do think it's probably only 3-4 more chapters now, though. Maybe. I'm also starting to think about what I want to write next. Do I stay in this universe? Write about Jack/Bitty? Or maybe Shitty/Lardo? Or Dex/Nursey? Do I return to my Teen Wolf WIP and try to finish it? Do I soothe my Marvel woes by writing Bucky Barnes the happy ending he deserves?? The possibilities are endless.
> 
> In other news, it is hot as balls in Texas, which necessitated getting Deacon a pair of boots to wear so his little toe beans don't get scalded on downtown sidewalks. See tumblr for the video of his first time trying them on. He was...not pleased. Two days later, however, he has acclimated and I don't have to worry about his feets anymore, which is nice. I'm starting to sort out my summer plans in terms of travel and having the books I need wherever I am and I'm generally feeling pretty excited about 3 full months of reading/preparing for my exams in various locations (with hiking brain-breaks, of course).
> 
> In IRL hockey news, I don't know if I'm going to survive the Caps/VGK game tonight. I have already procured ice cream for either celebration or despair. Pray for me.
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for the comments and I'll see you next week!


	46. Chapter 46

Things get better.

Well. Some things.

Over the next week, Eli turns in all his assignments on time. He makes a video for his channel, manages Tuesday and Thursday—his lightest work days— without having to use Hawke’s mobility harness, only gets one migraine and doesn’t have any seizures. He and Kent also don’t fight about anything. It’s a good week.

Mostly.

“Mostly” because people are still terrible. He’s been ignoring comments and private messages on Instagram, but he makes the mistake of scrolling through some of them while waiting for Kent to pick him up from class on Wednesday and…well there were a lot of nice things but there were also some scary things.

Like death threats.

Actual real life people. Strangers. Who apparently want him dead. For corrupting Kent or for just generally being gay or—he doesn’t even know. He had to stop reading them because it was getting hard to breathe and then Kent found him and took his phone away before he did something stupid like delete all of his social media accounts entirely.

The following day, Jessica called him (likely because Kent called her) and convinced Eli to give his Instagram, Twitter, and Youtube passwords to one of the Aces PR interns who apparently is now in charge of managing his accounts. Not posting anything—she assured him, just deleting all the bad comments and reporting people who cross the line of ugly to potentially dangerous.

So that’s…well. He wouldn’t necessarily term it “good,” but at least he’s not afraid to look at the comments on his posts now. He’s also talked to Jessica about some potential PR opportunities with Kent—ways to humanize him, she said, to help move his narrative from bad boy to role model. The Aces really want to work the “confused gay kid made some bad choices but now he’s Out and everything is awesome” angle. Which feels a little gross but Eli sees why its necessary and it is at least partly true, so he agrees that they can talk more about including Eli in smaller, controlled pieces of media: a behind-the-scenes tour for Aces social media of Kent’s apartment—when Eli happens to be cooking, curating a few intentional Instagram moments in a couple more weeks when he’s back, literally and figuratively, on his feet.

Jessica also informed him that he and Kent had, apparently, been invited on Ellen.

Which Eli will _never, ever,_ tell Eric.

Initially Eli actually wanted to consider it, because, hey, _Ellen_ , but Kent was sticking hard and fast to his “give the larger media nothing and maybe they’ll get bored” schtick so. No Ellen.

At least for now.

Eli might bring it up during their next relationship evaluation or whatever the hell the red heart on the calendar stands for.

So. Things are good. Mostly. And Eli is trying not to get his hopes up as February progresses because the whole “never had a boyfriend before” situation also meant he’d never celebrated valentines day before. And he knows Kent has _ideas_ and $150 to spend on him. Well, probably $200, if he’s being realistic, because by the morning of valentines day Kent hasn’t spent any of his allocated weekly $50 which probably means he’s planning to add it to the valentines provision since they hadn’t made any stipulations about that. Eli finds himself unable to be mad about it.

The Aces have a game that day, because of course they do, but it’s at home and its a matinee on a Saturday, so Eli, Alex, and Sarah —Rad’s wife—sit in the box together and wave their special commemorative Aces Valentines Day Game Towels and bemoan the fact that their menfolk will likely be too tired to _really_ celebrate that night.

Alex and Sarah both have plans the following day—Sarah and Rads have an overnight babysitter and are going to see Cirque Du Soleil followed by dinner and a honeymoon suite at the Bellagio while Alex and Jeff are doing some sort of day-long kayaking expedition to Emerald Cave.

When they ask what Eli and Kent are planning Eli has to admit he doesn’t know because when he and Kent talked about it, Kent said he “had this one” and that it “was a surprise.”

So Eli called Jack and got a rundown of all of Kent’s favorite foods from his childhood and filmed a special episode for his channel dedicated to making those foods while Kent was gone for practice. Eli spent most of the episode attempting to talk about why he loved Kent so much, which was harder than any of the actual cooking because talking about emotions will never be his forte. But they now have a refrigerator full of food Kent will find endearing if not enjoyable and a truly sappy video he can go back and watch whenever he wants and, well, it’s not much, but Eli thinks Kent will be suitably pleased.

He’s looking forward to getting back to the house and showing off his work, maybe having a little living room picnic that maybe leads to…other things…maybe. But they have to get through the hockey game first and the Leafs are apparently not amenable to letting this be an easy win.

Four minutes into overtime—the score tied 2-2 at the end of regulation—Kent’s left skate gets hooked in front of the Leaf’s goal and he does an unintentional split that has Eli wincing in sympathy.

He manages to hobble off the ice with help from Matts, but immediately goes down the tunnel and Sarah sighs something about how groin injuries are the worst.

Which, yeah.

That effectively derails Eli’s valentines plans.

Security shows up to escort Eli down to the locker room a few minutes later and he sits in Kent’s stall, absently playing with Hawke’s ears—the left one will stay folded inside-out, the right won’t—while he waits.

The Aces lose in overtime despite that fact that, according to an irate Rushy, the goal shouldn’t have counted due to goal-tender interference.

Eli takes off Hawke’s vest so she can be a consoling force and Asher comes over while stripping out of his pads to ask Eli if he knows anything about peach glaze and it occurs to Eli, a little absently, that he’s sitting in a locker room, alone, full of professional hockey players, all of whom know he’s gay, and the most upsetting thing about the situation is the smell.

Regardless of social media and shitty people and refs who make bad calls— _we should replace all the refs with dogs,_ Rushy says, smooshing the sides of Hawke’s face, _you_ _would have called goal-tender interference, wouldn’t you? Yes you would—_ Regardless of everything else, the Aces, Kent’s team, their loyalty and defense, is something that shouldn’t be overlooked.

Kent hobbles out of the trainers’ room to several sympathetic noises as Jeff, fresh from the shower and toweling off his hair, sits down next to Eli.

“So,” he says, “Do you two have any big valentines day plans?”

Eli throws a look at Kent who’s grimacing his way slowly over to them.

“Not anymore, I’m assuming.”

“Yes, we do.” Kent says.

“What,” Eli asks, “watching netflix and helping you ice your balls?”

“Romantic,” Jeff says.

“Actually, we have _real_ plans,” Kent says, feigning affront. “I just had to change them a little.” Kent says.

“Care to share them?” Eli asks, dubious.

“I got you special permission for ice time from your doctor. Even though your eight weeks aren’t up yet. And booked the public rink from 9-10 tonight once free skate is over.”

“ _What_?”

“With stipulations. You have to wear a helmet and hold my hand.”

“Really? The doctor necessitated hand-holding?”

“Well. The helmet was his primary stipulation, the hand-holding was more me, but he did say it was probably wise to have someone with you the whole time, at the very least close enough to catch you if you start to fall.”

“Okay. But you can barely walk right now. If I fell you’d just go down with me.”

“Which is why I will be sitting on the bench watching with Hawke, and _Matts_ will be the one accompanying you on the ice.”

Matts.

_Matts_?

“I’m not following.”

“Well he wanted to talk to you about something anyway and he was just going to be all single and sad and alone tonight so I figured—two birds, one stone.”

“So _Matts_ is going to hold my hand and skate with me tonight. On Valentines day.”

“Matts is doing what?” Cookie asks.

“I’m doing what?” Matts says, coming out of the showers.

“Holding my hand during a romantic valentines skate tonight, apparently.”

The locker room goes very, suddenly, quiet.

Matts looks like a deer in headlights.

“Uh. That’s not—I mean, yeah, I talked to Kent about—but I was thinking we could do more of like a…prince arm thing?”

“A prince arm thing,” Eli repeats. “What the hell is a prince arm thing?”

Matts bends one of his elbows at a 90 degree angle, holding it out from his body, fist against his hip.

Wearing a towel and nothing else, he looks entirely ridiculous.

“Ohhh.” Asher says. “ _A prince arm thing_.” He hooks his hand through the bend of Matts’ extended elbow, as dainty as a naked six-foot-four corn-fed Tennessee boy can be. “Like this?”

“Right,” Matts agrees, relieved. “Prince arm thing.”

“How is this my life?” Eli asks no one in particular.

***

Eli has to help Kent get dressed that night, which is a nice change in the care-taking aspect of their relationship dynamic.

“Oh my god,” Kent mutters, “I can zip up my pants myself, my hands work just fine.”

“Let me love you,” Eli retorts and Kent rolls his eyes because that’s his line.

“So is Matts really going to skate with me for an hour tonight? Is that really a thing that’s happening?”

“Yup.”

“You couldn’t think of anyone uh…better suited for the job?”

“He’s one of the few single guys on the team and he has a thing he needed to talk to you about anyway.”

“A thing.”

“A thing,” Kent confirms. “Besides. He’s been a lot better, recently. You should hear some of the stuff he’s been saying on the ice when guys on other teams talk shit about me.”

Kent’s expression dims for a minute and Eli leans forward to kiss him.

“Okay. But he’s not coming home with us afterward. I have a surprise for you too.”

“Is this a sex surprise or a food surprise because usually I’d be happy with either one but I’m not sure—“

“Food,” Eli interrupts, grinning.

“Cool.”

They meet Matts at the igloo and put on their skates (and helmet, in Eli’s case) in the Ace’s practice locker room before walking down the hall to the public rink. The zamboni is just finishing it’s final pass and Kent waves to the driver.

“If you’re curious,” he murmurs to Eli, “Bribing the zamboni driver was what I spent my $200 on. Happy Valentines’ day.”

“I _knew_ you were going to combine the $150 with your weekly $50. That’s cheating.”

“No it’s not. It’s only cheating if there’s a rule saying I can’t do it.”

“I’m adding it to the whiteboard when we get home.”

“I’m contesting it at our next relationship talk.”

“I’ll make a powerpoint presentation defending my stance.”

“Y'all are weird.” Matts says.

Once the ice is clear, Kent settles himself on a bench right next to the exit, where the Concerned Moms usually sit during free skate, and Eli leaves Hawke next to him.

Matts steps out onto the ice and then looks back at him, uncertain.

The PA system is still playing some godawful romantic song mix.

“So,” Eli says sunnily, “This is really awkward.”

Matts offers his bent elbow.

Prince arm thing.

“Right,” Eli says.

He curls his hand around Matt’s bicep and takes a ginger step forward.

Matts almost immediately has to catch him.

Well, shit.

“Okay,” he says, “this is fine. We expected this.”

“We did?” Matts says, sounding a little panicked.

“Shut up.”

He gets himself upright again but apparently all the improvement his walking balance has seen just…isn’t translating onto the ice.

“Here,” Matts says, shifting so he’s behind Eli. “What if we—“

He circles his hands around Eli’s waist, propelling them forward a little, helping Eli find his center of gravity.

It’s…actually really effective.

Eli leans back into him a little, hesitant at first because—well—but Matts takes his weight, adjusts their course a little as the near the opposite end of the rink, and keeps going.

Kent might be glaring a little when they pass him on the way back.

After a few circuits, Eli straightens and lets Matt’s balance him just with his hands. And a few circuits after that, Matts starts to loosen his grip until he isn’t touching Eli at all anymore, just hovering close behind him, hands a few inches from his sides.

“This is good,” he says, “right? Like. This is really good?”

“Yeah,” Eli says, “Yeah, it is.”

Fifteen minutes later, Matts moves to skate beside him, looking a little less overburdened with anxiety about Eli’s ability to remain upright.

He offers his elbow again but Eli waves him off.

“I think I’m good. And I’m not going try and do anything more than this.”

Matts nods, continuing to watch him with a slightly disconcerting level of focus, but doesn’t argue.

“So,” Eli says, once they’ve made a few fluid circuits. “Kent said you wanted to talk to me about something?”

“Oh. Yeah. So, it’s not a big deal. But do you remember Jesse from the Breaking the Ice event? The little kid who—“

“Wanted to figure skate? Prompted our little dynamic duo? I remember.”

“Well. I was kind of curious, afterward, if there was a program like the Little Aces Scholarship fund—you know, that pays for poor kids’ gear and waives their fees so they can play hockey?—I checked to see if there was anything like that for figure skating here and there wasn’t.”

“That sucks.” Eli says, because it feels like Matts is waiting for a response.

“Right?” Matts agrees. “So I talked to Jessica about what it would take to try and _start_ a program and she set me up with some people to talk through like, specifics. Cost of ice time, gear, lessons, what the schedule would be like depending on how many kids participated…it’s actually a lot more complicated than I thought it would be. But the point—“

He licks his chapped lips and Eli resists the urge to offer him the Burt’s Bees in his pocket.

“The point,” Matts says, “is that I’m going to start a program like that. Small at first, obviously. But maybe with some fundraisers and some sponsors, if I could get the word out, we could expand it within a few years—have different ages groups sorted into different classes, pick up and drop off shuttles, stuff like that.”

“That’s—Matts. That’s really cool.”

“It’s not a big deal. It’ll be good PR or whatever. But we’re hoping the pilot program can start in the fall? It’ll only be available to twelve students grades 1-5, September to November, Tuesday and Thursday after school, but they’ll get skates, a uniform, and any of the students can come in and skate for free during open skating hours with a guest.”

“That’s amazing. Is—can Jesse come or—“

“No. He lives too far away. But I already uh, took care of that situation, so.”

“What do you mean?”

Matts looks a little sheepish.

“Oh. It’s not a big deal. I had one of the PR minions put me in contact with his group home. I sorted it out with them so he and his sister are both getting weekly lessons now. They sent me an email last week, though, actually. Jesse won the “most improved” award at the end of the six week semester and they moved him up to a more advanced class. Look.”

Matts fishes his cell phone out of his back pocket and scrolls for a minute, showing Eli a picture of Jesse on the ice, knees together, skates snowplowed toe-to-toe, grinning with a missing tooth, holding a slightly wrinkled paper certificate.

“That’s great.” Eli says, and maybe his voice cracks a little.

“Yeah. It’s whatever. Not a big deal.”

He shoves his phone back in his pocket, a flush of color creeping up his neck.

“You realize you’ve said ‘it’s not a big deal,’ like half a dozen times in the last two minutes.”

“So?”

“So, there’s this quote. I think from Shakespeare? About protesting too much—“

“Shut up. It’s _not_ a big deal. It’s just a thing. It’s whatever.”

“Okay, fine. It’s whatever.”

Eli makes sure the sarcasm in his voice is clear.

Matts rolls his eyes at him.

“ _Anyway_. I wanted to ask you. I don’t know if you’d be interested—or if you can even do it with your class schedule or whatever, but. We think we’re going to need two coaches. And obviously you’re the first person I thought of. We won’t be able to pay you a whole lot, but it wouldn’t be terrible either—“

Eli stops moving.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes?” Matts circles around him, looking uncertain. “I think you’d be good at it. And it sounds like you’d like doing it? And if things worked out and we could get more support for the program maybe by the time you graduated you could start teaching more than one class? You would obviously get like, first dibs, on which groups you wanted, too.”

“You’re really serious.”  
“Yeah.” He scratches the back of his still-pink neck. “We won’t have an official job offer for you to come in and talk about and sign for another two or three months. I just wanted to ask you um, informally, about it first to make sure it’d be something you’re into.”

“You’re asking me to teach kids how to skate. You’re offering me _money_ to teach kids how to skate. When I can currently barely skate on my own.”

“Well yeah,” Matts says, dismissive. “But the program wouldn’t start until next season. You’ll be better by then.”

The confidence is…more than a little heartening.

“Yes,” he says. “Thank you. Yes. I’d love to be part of that.”

“Cool.”

“Uh, hey. Eli?” Kent calls from the bench.

They barely have a chance to glance over before Hawke barks, trying push past Kent to get to the ice.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Eli mutters at the same moment that Matt’s says, “Oh shit.”

And then Matts just.

Scoops Eli up.

Into his arms.

Into his actual, stupidly muscular arms, bridal style, while skating hastily for the exit.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Eli asks.

“Hawke is—doesn’t that mean you’re going to have a seizure?”

“Yeah, but not like, right this instant.”

“Oh.”

They get to the exit where Kent is absolutely losing his shit, laughing so hard he’s bent over on the bench, elbows braced on his knees, practically wheezing.

Hawke, whining, finds nothing about the situation amusing.

“Why are you laughing at me?” Matts demands.

“Okay, easy,” Eli says, “I am super touched and all that but could you maybe put me down?”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Where do you think?” Eli asks Kent. “Locker room?”

“Probably best,” he agrees, still grinning. “Matts, can you walk with him to our locker room? It’s going to take me a minute.”

“Yes.” He says. “I can—yeah. Let’s go.”

“Deep breath,” Eli says as they clip on their blade protectors. “This is really not a big scary thing. I’m fine.”

“Sorry,” Matts says, hovering anxiously at his elbow as they move into the hallway. “The only time I’ve ever seen someone have a seizure was at your competition. And that was. You know. A big fucking scary thing.”

Eli goes ahead and wraps one hand around Matts’ arm, just to be safe. Hawke keeps head butting his knee which, combined with the skates, really isn’t helping things.

“That’s fair. But that was also a worst-case scenario.Most of the time I’ve got at least ten minutes after Hawke alerts to get somewhere safe and lay down. It’s very chill.”

“Seizures don’t seem very chill,” he says tightly.

Eli sits directly on the ground once they get to the locker room, just to be safe, and starts unlacing his skates.

“Okay, can you hand me my backpack and then go wait outside?”

“Outside?” he repeats, handing over the bag. “No. What if something happens?”

“Hawke will take care of me. Go wait for Kent. He can talk you through things. Please.”

Matts, thank god, obeys.  
Eli manages to get his skates and helmet off, lays out his blanket, and is comfortably situated with a good portion of Hawke’s body weight resting on him, when he gets an aura and closes his eyes.

Eight minutes later, Eli exits the locker room in a new pair of black leggings but, judging by Matts and Kent’s grasps on fashion, neither of them will notice they’re different black leggings than the ones he was wearing before.

“Hey,” Kent says, clearly resisting the urge to physically check him over. “You good?”

“Yep. Head hurts a little. Can we go home?”

“Sure thing.”

Matts walks with them out to Kent’s car, parked in one of the two north entrance handicapped spaces, Eli’s placard hooked on the review mirror.

“Well,” Matts says awkwardly, “Later.”

“Later,” Kent agrees, opening the back door for Hawke. “Thanks for your help, man.”

“No problem.”

Matts starts to walk back toward the facility again—probably to head through the building to get to the players lot—but Eli stops him.

“Hey, Matts?” he says.

“Yeah?”

“What you’re doing—It’s a big deal. And it’s okay that’s it’s a big deal. It’s okay to care.”

Matts swallows, looking somewhere in the vicinity of Eli’s left shoulder.

“I’m serious. You’re doing a really good thing. Don’t pretend like it’s not.”

“Okay.” Matts agrees, maybe just so Eli will let him leave.

“Okay,” Eli says.

Matts books it inside and Eli climbs into the passenger seat, groaning, half in exhaustion half in…complete bewilderment.

“Fuck me,” he mutters.

“Um,” Kent says. “I can try? But you probably shouldn’t expect much because—“

“Oh my god, stop it,” Eli says, laughing despite himself. “You know what I meant. Take us home.

“Okay,” Kent says reaching for his hand. “Home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't edited this chapter yet because I have a Real Life deadline currently demanding all my time. Apologies for any mistakes and I'll clean it up on Monday!
> 
> Captain's Log:  
> Your comments continue to give me life. Thank you x1000. See you next week!


	47. Chapter 47

By March, it’s clear that the Aces will be a serious contender in the finals. It’s also clear that they’re reaching a tipping point.

Overall, they’re playing good, aggressive, hockey. But as they creep closer and closer to April, on some days the “aggressive” is starting to outweigh the “good.”

The late hits, the missed calls, the constant verbal abuse…

Which yeah, pretending like they don’t care and responding with sarcasm usually works, but they _do_ care.

And Kent, at least, is just so tired of pretending like he doesn’t.

The worst part is the fact that this might just be his life, now. That he’ll have to deal with this for the rest of his career. That whatever team he’s on will have to deal with this—it’s—

Its exhausting.

And it’s a good thing that Eli has been progressing in leaps and bounds because Kent doesn’t know what he would do if Eli still needed him the way Kent needs Eli now.

Within a month they’ve done a complete 180 in terms of who's taking care of who.

Before, in pre-Eli times, with the amount of stress Kent is under, Kent probably would have gotten off the plane from a roady and headed straight to a bar. Now, he breaks speed limits to get to his condo and his couch where Eli will have food and music and sweet commentary on the nuances of collegiate life. They’ve started taking baths together, too, and Kent discovers that there is nothing quite as soothing as Eli slowly washing his hair, murmuring about how good his slapshot is getting and how hard he’s working and how proud Eli is of him.

Eli is like. The personification of a sigh of relief.

And the team is—the team is good too. If on edge. There’s no denying that their penalty minutes have been creeping up and they’re all sick and tired of the media attention that, despite their best efforts, hasn’t abated at all.

Kent anticipated resentment, but instead, he got anger. Not at him or Eli, but at the other teams. Other fans. Other organizations that sent out pretty press releases but then said nothing about the hateful signs proudly displayed in their arenas.

“And captains _know_ ,” Tater yells one night after a win that still left Kent with a bitter taste in his mouth. “Captains _know_ players talk. Why they not stop it? Tweet nice things—tape stick with rainbow for pride game—then pretend can’t hear when fucking winger call Kenny f-word. It’s being _bad_ Captain for not stop it. It—” he devolves into Russian and Oshie says, “hypocritical, is the word he’s looking for, I think.”

Tater just continues in Russian.

They get the gist of it anyway.

The following night both Oshie and Tater end up in the box, red faced and yelling incomprehensibly at a Russian player from the Islanders—a call-up who was _not_ part of the group chat, Oshie later tells Kent— who has to be half-carried off the ice, with a very clearly broken nose.

Neither of them will tell coach or anyone else what the man had said but, aside from that one instance, the Aces don’t deal with any issues from other Russian players.

Asher and several of the younger players maintain this is due to Tater’s mob connections.

There _are_ a few good moments, though, like the Aces pride night.

It’s against the Avs, which is one of the few teams who, blissfully, doesn’t seem to have a single asshole player. Well. A couple of them are definitely assholes, but none of them are specifically _homophobic_ assholes.

The stadium is sold out, preceded by a parade, because it’s Vegas, and Eli invites the WAGs over to the apartment and they bedazzle jean jackets together with their player’s names and numbers in rainbow colors on the backs. They all sit together in the box and Instagram is soon flooded with selfies—most of them involving Hawke with her own bedazzled rainbow collar for the occasion. The internet loses it’s mind a bit.

Rushy covers his entire stick for warmups in rainbow tape and then signs it and auctions it off after the game with the proceeds going to You Can Play. Rads buys tickets for the Gay-Straight alliance at Eli’s university, Jeff and several other players donate to various LGBT+ charities and Kent, having already consulted with Eli during their March Relationship Meeting, and feeling very adult about it, offers to match any donations made over the following 24 hours to a Gofundme campaign for a homeless LGBT+ youth shelter.

It’s funded in half that time.

There’s another good moment the following day, when a Deadspin reporter makes the unfortunate decision to ask Tater and Jeff if the team’s environment has changed since Kent came out.

“Have you had to make any adjustments to having a gay captain?” the man asks.

“No,” Jeff says evenly, making Jessica proud.

“Yes,” Tater said seriously. “We make Kenny wear blindfold in the shower so he’s not see our dicks. Because no homo. Is rainbow blindfold, though. Because Aces also pro homo. You know?”

#prohomo starts trending on Twitter later that day.

Jessica doesn’t let Tater do media for a couple weeks.

Moments like that, though. The good moments. Are getting more and more scarce. And Kent accidentally overhears Eli talking on the phone to Eric one day with a soft, terrible, voice he’s never heard Eli use before.

“I don’t know,” he says, and the resignation hurts Kent’s chest. “I wish there was a way for us to just…take it back, which—No. I know. And I do. But Eric, you don’t understand. I don’t know how long he can do this without going crazy. This isn’t—this can’t be the rest of his career. Or if it is I’ve just shortened his career by a decade. I just—yeah. I know. It’s just not fair.”

When Eli comes out of the guest bedroom, Kent is laying on the couch with his headphones in, listening to his pre-game hype playlist, trying to act like his world isn’t very, very, slowly falling apart.

The following week, after another win that feels like a loss, Rads won’t let Kent change after practice. Tater and Nicky stay in their gear too and ten minutes later after some Gatorade and a lot of deflection, they’re pulling him back out onto the ice.

“I don’t understand what’s happening right now,” Kent says.

“Well, kiddo,” Rads says, which, Kent probably shouldn’t let Rads call him ‘Kiddo.’ He’s the fucking captain. “Tell me if I’m wrong, but it looked like you were about two seconds away from dropping your gloves out there last night. And in the interest of keeping your nose in the middle of your face, we thought we’d better teach you to throw a punch before you actually _do_ get in a fight.”

Kent wants to protest, but he can’t really argue that A. yes, he nearly did try and fight someone last night and B. No, he wouldn’t have had the first clue as to how to go about the actual fighting.”

He exhales.

“That’s probably a good idea,” he allows.

***

The first week of April, he walks into Jessica’s office and closes the door behind him.

“Kent,” she says with raised eyebrows.

“I’m probably going to punch someone soon. During a game. I just thought I would let you know.”

She leans back in her chair.

“Frankly you’ve refrained from violence far longer than I anticipated. Do you have a clearer timeline for me, or—?”

Kent blinks at her.

“You’re not going to try and talk me out of it?”

“Not at all. This was, more or less, the plan, if you remember.”

“I—what?”

“Kent,” she say steadily. “Why do you think we’ve been mic-ing you up every game since you came out? Mic-ing up _multiple_ other guys per game—generating hours of content that we haven’t been publishing on any of our social media sites. It’s not because we enjoy hearing Rushy talk about sex toys—hilarious as that is. It’s because those mics are picking up all the shit that’s being said around you. At this point, we have an overwhelming amount of evidence that you’re being mistreated and most of the time officials aren’t calling the misconduct. I know the last three months have been terrible, but we have more than enough substantiation for an official complaint—even a lawsuit against the league if that’s something you want to pursue. We just need an inciting event to deploy it, now.”

“Oh,” Kent says faintly.

“This was in the packet I emailed to you back in January,” she says, a little judgmentally. “I take it you didn't read it?”

He’d _skimmed_ it.

Mostly.

“Uh…no.”

She sighs, but it’s her standard ‘I can’t believe hockey players are paid so much money when they’re this useless’ sigh, not an actual annoyed sigh.

“We weren’t just leaving you out to dry, Kent. We know this can’t be the rest of your career. Or anyone else’s. I’ve just been waiting for you to tell me when you’ve had enough.”

“Oh.”

“So,” she says, tapping her tablet. “Do you have a particular game in mind, or—“

And that’s her calendar app.

“No. I’m not—I don’t want to _plan_ a fight. I just know that I won’t be able to resist anymore at some point soon.”

“Ah. That’s fine, too. We have a press release ready, regardless.”

“Right.” He clears his throat. “So. Whenever it is, I should just make sure that my mic is working and I punch a guy who speaks clearly? Like. Really enunciates his slurs?”

“That would be preferable,” she agrees solemnly.

“I can do that.”

***

He gets home that afternoon feeling…not relieved. But hopeful. Maybe. Because at least they have a plan. Things might get better soon. And then he won’t have to spend so much of his time biting his tongue. But then again, part of that is his fault. Because he’s been trying _so_ hard—to play good, clean hockey and say the right things during media and avoid too much PDA with Eli where photographers might be present and only make Jessica-Approved Instagram posts and—well that’s not what he wanted.

When he imagined the good parts of being out he imagined being able to hold hands with Eli while walking Hawke, being able to tuck Eli under his arm and duck down to kiss him whenever he wanted; he imagined being casual with his affection. He’s an effusive person. Physically and verbally. When he’s in a post-game interviews he wants to answer the “how are you planning to celebrate the win tonight” or “what are your plans for the upcoming break” questions honestly. Well. Maybe not _too_ honestly, but something other than the canned response that doesn’t allow for references to his home-life, or who he shares it with. Pride night was a little taste of it, of being like, unashamedly gay, if that’s a thing. And it made him realize what he didn’t get to do otherwise. What he’s missing. He wants to post pictures on Instagram—not just the Jessica-Approved ones of Kent and Eli sitting across the table from each other at dinner, or Eli and Hawke both wearing jerseys with Kent’s name and number (adorable as that was). He wants to post the same sort of casually intimate photographs that Rads does with his wife, or Rushy does with his girlfriend. Pictures of Eli at home, _their_ home, sleep-rumpled and making pancakes in his boxers. He wants to post selfies of them kissing in front of the Bellagio fountains.

Kent is Extra. He will fully admit that.

And right now he feels like he’s bursting with all the limitations that PR talked him through in hopes of mitigating any fallout from fans that were “uncomfortable” with the new developments in his personal life.

But it’s _his_ life.

And if fans are homophobic they’re going to be pissed off anyway. And that’s not Kent’s problem.

He needs to stop acting like it is.

“Hey,” he says to Eli that night as they’re getting dressed. It’s Nicky’s birthday and the guys are all going out, families included, to a burger place.

“Hey,” Eli agrees absently.

He’s in the closet, naked and considering his clothing options,

Kent pats Eli’s butt because it’s right there.

It’s a very nice butt.

“Yes?” Eli prompts.

Right.

“Can I borrow a shirt?” Kent asks.

“Uh.” Eli very obviously studies Kent’s side of the closet—full of shirts—then his own side. "I mean. Anything of mine will be ridiculously small on you, but. Sure? Which one do you want to borrow?”

“The gayest one you own.”

“Oh—kay.”

He sorts through several hangers, considering, and Kent may or may not get a little distracted looking at his ass again.

“How about this one? Hey. Focus.”

Kent focuses.

It’s a plain white T-shirt. A little bigger than Eli’s usual fare, even, with “I VIOLATE ARTICLE 27, SEC. 553-4 OF THE MARYLAND ANNOTATED CODE SAFELY, OFTEN, AND EXTREMELY WELL” in all caps on it.

Kent has never seen Eli wear it before.

“Uh. What’s it mean?”

“Sections 553 and 554 of Article 27 of the Maryland Code prohibited sodomy, oral sex, and,” Eli makes quotes with his fingers “any other unnatural or perverted sexual practice with any other person.”

“That’s fucked up.” Kent says.

“Indeed.”

“Not anymore, though, right?”

“No, not anymore.”

Kent takes the hanger from Eli, rubbing the jersey-knit fabric between his thumb and forefinger.

“You’re right, this is a very gay shirt.”

“What you wanted?”

“It’s perfect.”

He pulls it on and—yes. It’s pretty small, clinging tightly to his chest and arms and just barely long enough to hit the top of his belt—but. It’s definitely perfect.

He flexes in the mirror, grinning.

Eli gives Kent a retaliatory ass-slap, then fits himself to Kent’s back, tucking his thumbs just under the hem of the shirt, pressing his fingertips into the shower-heated skin over Kent’s hip bones. He hooks his chin over Kent’s shoulder. Leans his temple against Kent’s jaw.

“You know everyone will be taking pictures tonight.”

“Yes,” Kent agrees.

“I thought we were trying not to offend anyone’s delicate sensibilities with our clothing and social media choices.”

“We were. I just decided I’m done caring.”

Kent pauses, considering.

“Unless you would rather—“

“No. No, if this is a ‘fuck it’ moment, you have my full support.”

“This is definitely a ‘fuck it,’ moment,” Kent agrees.

“Oh good,” Eli says, pressing a kiss to the hinge of Kent’s jaw. “I love those. I will also need to reconsider my own clothes tonight, then.”

Kent shifts to the side, pulling Eli to the front of the mirror, reversing their positions.

“Wear the shoes,” he suggests.

“To a burger place? I don’t think so.”

“Something sparkly?”

“You and Vegas were made for each other. It’s 5pm.”

“Leather?”

Eli sighs. “How about skinny jeans and something off-the-shoulder.”

Kent considers this.

“Which shoulder?”

“Either?” Eli laughs. “Do you have a preference?”

Kent lowers his mouth to the left side of his neck—the juncture between Eli’s collarbone and shoulder.

“This one,” he says.

He sucks on the skin there, just a little, and then glances up, meeting Eli’s eyes in the mirror, waiting for permission.

“Oh,” Eli says faintly. “Yes. Yes, that one is good.”

They’re a little bit late for dinner.

The burger place is barely controlled madness. They didn’t rent it out, but they did reserve a good portion of the booths and nearly all the guys and their families or significant others are there.

It’s not until they’re mostly done eating that Asher asks, mouth still full, “Hey Kent, what’s your shirt mean?”

He lets Eli explain.

“Wait,” Matts says, leaning over the back of the booth next to them. “ _Blowjobs_ used to be illegal in Maryland?”

“Blowjobs used to what?” Moose asks, popping over the back of the opposite booth.

Rads sighs, covering the ears of the toddler in his lap.

“Cunnilingus too, depending on how a judge interpreted it,” Jeff says.

Rads sighs louder.

“What’s cunnilingus?” Cookie asks.

“Oh my god,” Rushy says faintly.

All of the women stop eating.

“Okay,” Alex says to Cookie. “That’s horrifying. What state were you raised in? Because I need to write the representatives about their failed sexual education system.”

“Texas?” Cookie says.

“Who’s surprised?” Asher’s girlfriend Christina mutters.

“And, uh,” Cookie puts down his drink, wilting a little under all the attention. “We didn’t actually have sex-ed in school? That I remember? It was just like. Don’t do it. The end.”

“Oh my god,” Rushy repeats.

“Okay,” Alex says, “Who has a mini white-board in their car?”

Several of the grown men at the table dutifully raise their hands.

“ _And_ markers?” some of the hands go down.

“Alright. Well, someone bring me a whiteboard and at least two different-colored markers, please. This booth is about to become the sex-ed booth.”

“Have I mentioned I love you recently?” Jeff asks her.

“That’s my cue to leave,” Rads says, standing. He balances his daughter on one hip and picks up his drink with his free hand. “I’ll send the other rookies over, though. They could probably use a refresher.”

“Good man,” she says. “Hey, will someone go ask the milkshake maker guy for a banana? We’ll give it back when we’re done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kent's shirt is based on this picture:
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
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> 
> From the second National March on Washington for Lesbian and Gay Rights, Washington, D.C., October 11, 1987. Photo © Exakta.
> 
> Captain's log: 
> 
> We're nearly finished! I upped the chapter count again because I'm a failure but I can definitely say it won't be over 50 chapters, and I'm pretty sure it will end at 49 now. As usual, I am buried in work so I'll keep this short but I love you all so much, thank you for all the encouraging comments, and I'll see you next week!
> 
> Also, please enjoy [this](http://xiaq.tumblr.com/post/175096033625/xiaq-hiddenbookshop-currently-crushing-so-hard) photoset that hiddenbookshop made for this story on Tumblr. I love it so much.


	48. Chapter 48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: An asshole makes a homophobic, ableist, racist comment. And then gets punched a lot for it.

Kent bruises easily.

He feels like that could probably be a metaphor for like, his life, or something, but it’s also just true in the physical sense.

Since he can remember, he’s always carried the mistakes he’s made on his skin:

Stubbed toes that turned purple, mottled knees from falling at the park, burst capillaries in his cheeks from forgetting his sunscreen. As he got older, the mistakes got bigger and so were the consequences: a twisted ankle that bloomed red and green over tight, swollen skin, fractured ribs that painted his whole back a map of pain.

He’s used to seeing bruises as a bad thing. A reminder that he fucked up. Wasn’t good enough. Needed to do better. _Be_ better.

So the first time Eli leaves a hickey on his neck—probably an accident considering how careful he usually is about that kind of thing—it leaves Kent a little winded.

First, because it occurs to him that he can let Elidothat now. The “fuck it” plan is in full swing and he honestly could not care less if cameras catch him shirtless in the locker room with a clear indication of what he’d been up to with his boyfriend the night before.

But second…

Kent likes leaving his marks on Eli. That’s not new.

He’s a possessive asshole and he takes significant, maybe more than is healthy, pleasure in seeing the places where his mouth has been on Eli’s body. Places no one else's mouth will ever be.

But standing there in front of the mirror, toothbrush limp in his hand, noticing a bruise Eli has left on _him_.

Well.

That’s something else entirely.

He and Jack had always been careful. No visible marks. No risk. Hardly any kissing even.

But here he is, with his first ever hickey at nearly twenty-one years old and it’s—it’s the first time he can remember that a bruise has meant something good. A reminder of something he’s done well, done right. Not a mistake.

He pushes at it with one finger.

He wishes it was darker.

Eli stumbles into the bathroom, oblivious to Kent’s existential hickey crisis, and squints his way over to Kent, wrapping his arms around his bare waist, pressing a kiss to his shoulder-blade.

“Morning,” he mutters.

Kent loves him so much.

“Morning,” he agrees.

Eli leans into him, harder, nose smushed into the nape of his neck, and meets Kent’s eyes in the mirror.

“Oh,” he says, straightening. “I—“

He brings one hand up and touches the bruise in question: washed out in the bright bathroom light, but still noticeable, still stark against Kent’s pale skin.

Kent inhales sharply when Eli presses down.

“Sorry,” Eli says, “I guess I got a carried away. I didn’t mean to.”

“No,” Kent says, maybe a little too loud, a little too fast. “I—you can. Now.”

“I can?”

“Mean to. If you want.”

“Oh.”

Eli presses a little harder.

“Okay.”

It’s not even really a sex thing, Kent thinks, pulling Eli back into the bedroom with him. Hell, even _sex_ isn’t just a sex thing. Because sex with Eli is unlike any other intimate encounter he’s had. Mostly because it’s intimate in a way that he can’t even equate to something else. Because they’re both just— _there_. Which, obviously. But even their initial awkward fumblings were…more. Everything. Whatever. Sex with Eli isn’t just sex. It’s being the closest he can possibly get to this person he loves so much and so desperately that it scares him.

And having proof—right there on his skin—that Eli _lets_ him get that close is.

Kent is a hockey player not a poet.

He doesn’t have words for this kind of thing.

But “love” seems really fucking trite for all the _whatever_ that he feels. Or maybe other people shouldn’t be allowed to use the word “love” because they can’t possibly mean it the way he does.

“Kent,” Eli says, and from his tone it’s probably not the first time he’s said Kent’s name. “Hey. I’m trying to kiss you, why are you frowning?”

“I love you.”

“And that makes you angry?”

“No. I just. Need a better word than ‘love.’ But there isn’t one.”

Eli folds his arms on top of Kent’s chest and rests his head on them.

“I’m not following.”

“I _more than love you_.”

He probably shouldn’t sound so pissed off about it.

“Oh.”

Eli sits up a little, elbow on Kent’s sternum, chin cupped in his palm.

His hair is a riot of tangled curls and his eyes are kind of puffy and there are pillow creases on his cheek and he is quite possibly the most beautiful person Kent has ever seen.

“Well,” Eli says. “I can’t help you with terminology. But I more than love you too. If that helps.”

“It does.”

***

Kent finally drops his gloves in the first period of their last regular season game.

He didn’t plan it that way, though Jessica did call him with what amounted to a “hey, remember that fight you’re supposed to have? Any idea when that’s going to happen and can it preferably be before playoffs?” inquiry the week before.

The thing is, once Kent knew putting up with shit on the ice had a purpose, he wanted to make sure that the—what had Jessica called it—inciting incident? was perfect. He wanted a soundbite that could encapsulate every bit of the rage he’d been feeling for the past three months. A soundbite that could _make people_ _understand._

Jonathan Moyer gives Kent that soundbite.

He also gives Kent a black eye and a concussion.

Because Kent is a 5’ 10,” 180 pound center who’s never dropped his gloves before in his life and Moyer is a 6’ 3” 225 pound enforcer who literally gets paid to fight people.

Honestly, if Kent had been thinking, he wouldn’t have chosen Moyer. Because trying to fight an actual goon is stupidly dangerous for someone like Kent, and he wouldn’t normally take a risk like that right before playoffs.

But the thing is, he’s not thinking about uneven match-ups or potential injury when he nearly breaks his hand on Moyer’s face. He’s not even thinking about the necessity of an inciting incident.

Mostly he’s just thinking: this man needs to die.

They’re playing the Schooners and the first few face-offs are fine. The captain seems like a decent guy from what Kent knows of him and he doesn’t hear anything particularly nasty from anyone on the ice for the first several minutes of play

And then number 43, Moyer, presses Kent into the boards, battling over the puck, and spits out:

“Saw your boy toy in the box. Scraping the bottom of the barrel with that one, eh?You couldn’t find some normal white twink to suck your dick? Guess I’m not surprised the best you can do is a retarded nigge—“

And suddenly Kent doesn’t care about the puck anymore.

Kent doesn’t even remember the first punch, afterward.

He watches the film later and he sees himself drop his gloves and his stick all in one go, use his right foot to hook Moyer’s knee and take him down onto the ice.

All he remembers, though, is rage: straddling Moyer’s chest and throwing furious, mostly ineffective punches, ignoring the two hits Moyer himself gets in—one that knocks off Kent’s helmet, the second that blackens his eye—and the fact that his hand is screaming in pain. Because he’s not going to stop fucking hitting him until someone forces him to. And someone does, within a few seconds, Kent’s outrage wild enough that it takes two refs to wrestle him off, hauling him bodily away while he keeps on yelling—he doesn’t even know what. Threats? Promises?

Except.

Moments after the ref has pulled Moyer to his feet, someone _else_ tackles Moyer right back onto the ice and it’s—

It’s not an Ace.

It’s a _Schooner_.

Number 32. Okezie.

His skin is several shades darker than Eli’s and he’s nearly the same size as Moyer.

The refs are surprised enough that they don’t actually stop it from happening at first and it’s only the sudden shock of blood across the ice that gets them moving again, separating the two.

Moyer is screaming at Okezie and Okezie is screaming right back at him in French, looking like he’s about ready to go after the ref holding onto him and then the Schooners’ captain is there with a hand on Okezie’s chest, shoving him, hands bunched in the neck of his jersey, talking low and in his face and Kent is just.

Standing there.

Winded.

Dripping sweat and maybe a little blood.

Eventually one of the refs remembers him and pushes him toward the tunnel and he goes willingly.

He has a quickly swelling eye and ringing in his ears and his hand may very well be broken somewhere.

But he definitely has his soundbite.

***

The Aces win 4-2.

Kent listens to the game in the trainers’ room with ice on his face and ice wrapped around his hand and Hawke’s head on his knee.

Eli paces through most of it with occasional interjections of “did you have to pick the _biggest_ man on the team? I mean _honestly,”_ while they do concussion protocol and manipulate his swollen fingers and make sure that none of his teeth are loose.

They decide that nothing is broken, but he does have a minor concussion, and he’s maybe fucked up his middle extensor tendon which means he’ll miss, at the very least, the first game of the playoffs. He can’t really bring himself to care at the moment, though.

He stays with the trainers even after he’s showered and the game is finished, because he has a quickly building headache and a press conference to contend with, but the guys come back in quiet pairs to give him fist bumps and gentle back slaps and then nearly all end up distracted by the fact that Hawke has her vest off and is available for petting.

When Coach comes back to say that Jessica is ready for them, he has a funny look on his face.

“What?” Kent asks.

“I’m not sure,” he answers.

Kent doesn’t understand until they get to the hall, where Jessica is standing with multiple Schooners. There’s Okezie, which isn't that surprising, maybe, but also the captain: Marlow, a second-line winger (number 23, Kent can’t remember his name), the Schooner’s coach, and a tall, narrow man with a tablet and glasses and general air of resignation. Kent assumes the latter is the Schooner’s head of PR.

“Kent,” Jessica says. “If you don’t know them already, this is David Okezie, Aaron Marlow, Liam Martel, and Coach Jacob Thomson, they’ll be joining our press conference.”

“Oh—kay?” Kent says.

Because what the fuck.

“Thank you,” Okezie says seriously, sticking out his hand, and Kent reaches for it automatically because that’s what you do when a massive defenseman—who just beat the shit out of his own teammate—offers you his hand.

They both realize at the same moment that Kent can’t actually shake though, seeing as his knuckles are still wrapped in an ice pack, and they grin, dropping their arms.

“I feel like I should probably be thanking _you_ ,” Kent says. “I think you did more damage than I did.”

“Yes,” Okezie agrees solemnly, “I did.”

Martel turns a laugh into a cough.

“I’d like to reiterate that I advise against this,” Glasses-tablet-guy says.

The rest of the Schooners ignore him.

Clearly he doesn’t strike fear into the hearts of the team in the same way that Jessica does the Aces. Kent would never dream of ignoring Jessica.

“They’re ready when we are,” Jessica says, “I want coaches on either end. Captains in the middle, Okezie, you’ll sit between Martel and Marlow.”

“What about us?” Rads says, drawing even with Kent. Tater appears a moment later, trying to get his still-wet hair to lay flat.

“Derek, I want you next to Kent. Alexei, you’ll be between Derek and Coach.”

“You’re letting Tater do media again?” Kent asks blankly.

“This is an Aces press conference,” Jessica says, “There can’t be more Schooners at the table than Aces. Besides. You need your A’s with you.”

She moves her attention to Tater: “Behave.”

To Rads: “Keep them in line.”

To Kent: “Turn your hat around the right way and try to keep your hand under the table. Here’s your note cards. You’re still speaking after Coach.”

To all of them: “Are we ready?”

“No,” the Schooners PR guy says.

Jessica leads them down the hall, heels clicking, and the coaches fall in line behind her, talking lowly to each other. The players from both teams glance at each other, cumulatively shrug, and follow.

“Elijah, right?” Okezie says, waiting until Kent and Eli have caught up to him and Martel.

“Eli,” Eli says. “And your name is David?”

“Yes.”

“We call him Kezzy,” Martel says helpfully.

Okezie hip checks Martel, returning his attention to Eli. “Are you recovering well from your injury?”

Both Okezie and Martel have lilting French-Canadian accents that Eli clearly likes, judging by his delighted grin.

Kent is not jealous.

“I am, thanks,” Eli says. “Skating again and everything.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Okezie says. “It sucks you’ve had to deal with—“ he gestures to encompass the hallway, but clearly means more than their current surroundings. “All of this, while trying to get healthy again, too.”

Eli tucks his hand into Kent’s, lacing their fingers together.

“It’s worth it.”

Okezie smiles, maybe a little wry. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“I’ve been watching your videos,” Martel says to Eli. “Well. Honestly, I watch more of your friend Eric’s videos.”

“Sweet tooth,” Okezie says, sotto voice.

“Some of the guys got together at one of the A’s houses few weeks ago and we made the, uh, maple pecan pie? It was the best thing that has ever come out of Dumbo’s oven.”

“It was probably the _only_ thing that’s ever come out of Dumbo’s oven,” Okezie says.

Martel shrugs. “Also true.”

“That’s awesome,” Eli says, “I’ll tell Eric you liked it.”

“He plays NCAA hockey, right? At Samwell with Jack Zimmerman?”

Martel’s face is perfectly innocent, but it feels like a loaded question.

Eli doesn’t have a chance to answer, though, because they get to the conference room and Jessica opens the doors without giving them a chance to pause.

Eli lets go of Kent’s hand and Kent glances briefly at the others before remembering he’s in full-on fuck-it mode and ducks to kiss him.

“Love you,” he says, not even attempting to be quiet about it.

“More than love you,” Eli answers.

“Time for gross later,” Tater says, and pulls Kent inside.

Jessica starts the conference by playing eight straight minutes of film on the projector: five and ten and fifteen-second cuts of audio from various Ace’s mics overlaid on top of game footage. Late hits. Homophobic slurs. Refs ignoring slurs. Refs ignoring slashing. And hooking. And crosschecking. Threats. More slurs.

Seeing them—hearing them—like that, laid end-to-end, is infuriating in a way that Kent hadn’t expected. He realizes his hands are shaking as the last clip, the clip from the game that night, Jessica’s _inciting incident_ , plays over the speakers.

The audio is loud.

The room is uncomfortably silent afterward.

Kent notices that Martel’s hands are curled into fists on top of the table.

Kent takes his note cards, two this time, out of his pocket and lays them flat on the table, trying to breathe evenly.

“Over the last thirteen weeks,” Coach says, “My players, in particular Kent Parson, have been the victims of harassment, injury, defamation, and ridicule. This abuse has been based primarily on Kent’s sexual orientation, but also, in some cases, as you just heard, on his boyfriend’s race and disabilities. The league has neglected to address these issues up until this point.”

He gestures to the now-blank projector. “These were only highlights of the misconduct. We have over an hour of similar compiled instances which we will make available to the public later tonight, as well as a list of names of players and referees who have perpetuated this misconduct. Up until this point, Kent has elected not to press charges against the league for willfully ignoring this abuse and failing to protect his health and safety. But should he decide to pursue legal action, the Aces will fully support him.”

That causes the room to wake right up.

“I have faith,” Kent says, directly into the mike, loud enough that the reporters settle back down, “that the league will take action now that the extent of the issue is beyond question. It’s unacceptable that any player be targeted for their sexuality, race, or otherwise and I feel it’s my responsibility to speak up now to ensure that future players don’t have to deal with similar treatment.”

He looks up.

Tries to meet a few eyes, looks into a few cameras.

“This can’t continue. The league can’t purport itself to be inclusive, franchises can’t hold pride nights and You Can Play campaigns, and then collectively ignore or oppose the same inclusivity they’re preaching at fundraising events when a professional gay player steps on their ice or appears in their own locker room. It has to stop.”

“I’m guilty of this,” Marlow—the Schnooner’s captain—says. “Most of the guys on the team were supportive of Kent when he came out. But there were a few that weren’t. That made comments. And I knew they would bring their mindsets onto the ice tonight. I’m a young captain. I’ve only had the C for a few months and I didn’t know how to handle it. So I didn’t. I didn’t contribute to any of the shit that was said on the bus or in the locker room before the game today, but I didn’t stop it, either. I didn’t want to rock the boat, or seem weak or soft. That’s not a good excuse, but I know it’s one a lot of guys probably have right now for not speaking up. And I just want to say: we need to anyway, even if it’s uncomfortable or awkward. First because it’s the decent thing to do, but second because it’s likely there’s a player on your own team who’s affected by it.” He swallows. “And if we as captains and team leaders are afraid to do that—maybe we don’t deserve the letters on our jerseys.”

“And coaching staff is responsible for picking up the slack if their team leaders aren’t handling things,” the Schooners’ coach says. “I knew I had a few guys with views I didn’t agree with, using language I didn’t agree with. I even pulled them aside and spoke to them, but I didn’t make it clear that prejudice and bigotry would not be tolerated on my team. If I had, tonight would not have happened. I take responsibility for that and I promise you it won’t happen again.”

A couple reporters start to yell questions and he raises his voice, “Speaking specifically about the incident tonight, and Jonathan Moyer—“

The room goes quiet again.

“This is not the first disciplinary issue we’ve had with Moyer. The Schooners have elected to place Moyer on waivers. I’ve got no idea what the league’s punishment will be for his actions tonight, but I hope it similarly sets a precedent.”

Martel and Okezie turn to look at each other—surprised, maybe? Kent sees Okezie kick his toe against Martel’s heel under the table. The press conference version of a fist-bump.

“Okay,” Jessica says, “Questions?”

There are a lot of questions.

Most of them are for Kent—Why did he wait this long to say anything? Was he intending to sue the league? Was he intentionally building a case to sue the league? Were the Aces compiling evidence at his behest? Is he injured? Will he be able to play in the first round?

Mostly his answer is the same: He just wants to play hockey.

He waited because he wanted to focus on hockey. He though things would get better on their own but they didn’t. He’s not currently planning to sue the league, but he’s waiting to see how the league responds. He just wants to play hockey and right now he can’t play to the best of his ability unless something changes. He wasn’t building a case. He did not ask the Aces to compile evidence—he was too busy trying to play his best hockey. He has a concussion that will mean he’s out for the first game or two of the finals. He hopes he’s back on the ice soon. He just wants to play hockey.

Rads and Tater take a couple questions to give him a break—Rads takes ones about the Aces unity—they all completely support Kent, they don’t blame him for the shit they’ve been dealing with, they hope the league institutes necessary changes.

Tater takes one about the fight itself, a softball noting that Kent has never dropped his gloves before—“I teach Kenny to punch,” Tater says, “Maybe shouldn’t say because his aim not so good. Make me look bad. But we don't need to practice Kenny’s aim, if league do the right thing.” His easy smile fades a little. “But I have warning for other teams, if league do the wrong thing: Anybody say bad things about Eli, _my_ aim very good.”

Jessica clears her throat and Tater grins sunnily again. “But I’m sure league do the right thing. Make best decision.”

Okezie gets several questions about locker room behavior, anger management, which is frankly laughable all things considered, and whether or not physical violence on game ice was the “appropriate forum” for addressing intra-team disagreements.

Okezie takes a deep breath.

“I’m the child of immigrants. And I’m proud of that. Growing up in Montreal, diversity was a good thing. I was embraced by the hockey community at a young age and my teammates were like family. But other teams—even as a kid, other teams never let me forget that I am black. That’s followed me to the NHL, to some degree. It’s an easy chirp. An easy dig. Guys know it will piss me off. Usually my own locker room is safe, but for some reason people think it’s okay to say things to opponents about race that they would never say to teammates’ faces. Even when it amounts to the same thing. Moyer hadn’t ever said anything like what he said tonight while he was in the locker room. If he had, I would have punched him then.”

Several reporters try to jump on the “unnecessary violence” aspect of that answer, while others yell out questions about why Moyer is being put on waivers if this is the “first time” he’s said something like this.

“Oh, he’s said _plenty_ ,” Okezie retorts. “Vaguely racist stuff. The kind of thing you can’t call out without making yourself a bigger target. The homophobia was less vague. The ableism even worse. I sat there and gritted my teeth through a year and a half of it—the last two months being the worst—and I’m not a proponent of violence in most situations, but I’m also not sorry I hit him. I’ll take whatever punishment the organization and the league believes I deserve but I’m not sorry. I’d do it again. The Schooners can trade me. I don’t care.”

Glasses-tablet-guy pinches the bridge of his nose, looking heavenward.

Apparently Okezie is having his own little fuck-it moment.

“We won’t be trading him anytime soon,” the Schooners’ coach notes dryly. “And he won’t receive any punishment in-house. Had I addressed the problem sooner, it wouldn’t have come to this.”

“Liam! Mr. Martel!” A man in the front row calls. Kent recognizes him. He’s the Washington Post reporter that usually manages to come across as not completely incompetent.

Martel leans forward, expectant.

“You’ve been very quiet up until this point,” Washington Post guy says. “Is there a reason you’ve joined your teammates and coach at the table? Is there anything you’d like to say?”

“Oh, me?” Martel throws his thumb, cavalier, toward Okezie. “I’m just here as moral support for my boyfriend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early chapter for you because I am a kind and benevolent dictator (fic-tator? hur hur). And also because I've been looking forward to posting this (and the next) chapter for...a very long time.
> 
> Captain's Log: 
> 
> The summer is progressing far too quickly. I'm headed off to the farm this weekend, but according to my uncle, the new wifi IS working. So that shouldn't impact my ability to update next week while I'm there. Hit up tumblr for pictures of Deacon enjoying the country life. I love you and your comments and I hope you're having a wonderful day!


	49. Chapter 49

For the first time in maybe ever, ESPN has more hockey-related coverage than any other sport for a solid 48 hours.

It starts with the press conference.

The press conference where the Schooners’ top-performing defenseman and one of their rising-star rookies casually inform the world that they’ve been in a relationship for _four years_.

Since they played together in Rimouski for the Océanic.

“Not that we were ever really on the ice together during games then,” Martel says. “I was sixteen, third line, and still figuring out what hand-eye coordination was. He was eighteen, star of the show and headed for the draft. I had no game to speak of, on or off the ice, but I won him over eventually.”

“They had us rooming together,” Okezie says. “It was probably Stockholm syndrome.”

“That doesn’t explain the three years we were long-distance,” Martel tells Okezie, “But nice try.”

Martel turns to address the cameras. “He loves me.”

Okezie rolls his eyes.

Kent feels like he’s stepped into an alternate dimension.

The reporters take a moment to shift gears and then the questions start again full-force and for the first time in three months Kent, despite sitting at the center of the table, feels completely invisible.

It’s nice.

Kent buys Okezie and Martel’s drinks that night, along with a good portion of the Schooners and Aces who go out with them.

He’s feeling particularly benevolent.

The Schooners have an early curfew, because they’re leaving at the crack of dawn, but Kent, Okezie, and Martel have 45 minutes after the press conference to find a club, have a beer, yell in each other’s faces about how much they love their boyfriends, and then yell about how cool it is that they can be in public yelling about how much they love their boyfriends. They pose for selfies with a couple dozen people, Martel loses his shirt, they drink some multicolored shots, and then Okezie and Martel promise to keep in touch as Marlow drags them out the door with the rest of the Schooners to meet their Ubers.

Kent goes home to Eli—who declined the invitation to get drinks in favor of pre-finals studying and avoiding potential flashing lights.

But when Kent gets home, Eli isn’t doing school work. He’s sitting on the bed with both animals and a tub of ice-cream, TV on. The TV stays on for the rest of the night.

It starts with the press conference.

The footage goes viral by the time Kent makes it home.

But things escalate with the Instagram post.

It’s from Martel’s account, a picture of Okezie carrying him—piggy-back, down the hallway of what looks like a hotel, and Martel—still shirtless from the club—has got his face tucked into Okezie’s neck, laughing. There’s no caption, just a hashtag: #prohomo.  
Okezie posts his own photo a few minutes later with their positions reversed, Martel making an exaggerated pained face, pretending to stagger under Okezie’s weight. It has the same hashtag: #prohomo.

And then things get downright unreal.

Fifteen minutes later, Rushy makes his own Instagram post. He’s wearing a tank top that says “Let me be perfectly queer,” toasting the camera with a beer. It has two hashtags: #bisexual and #prohomo.

Ten minutes after that, a retired player—Brian Andrews (two Stanley cups and one Conn Smythe, fifteen years in the league), posts a picture on twitter of two clearly male hands with interlaced fingers. Both are wearing matching wedding rings. #prohomo.

Ten minutes after that, one of the Rangers’ veterans, Max Clarke—probably going to retire this year but still killing it in ppg—posts a selfie on twitter of himself sitting up in bed, arm slung with casual familiarity around another man’s shoulders. They’re both wearing old T-shirts and glasses and the top of a large dog’s head and shoulders is visible laid out across their laps.

#prohomo.

And then there are NCAA players:

One that’s leaning over the boards, goalie helmet tipped up, to accept a kiss from a man in pedestrian clothes.

Two that are out cold, wearing their teams colors, spooning in a single dorm room bed that looks like it’s struggling to accommodate their combined weight.

#prohomo.

And then there are the juniors:

A gangly kid that posts a video of himself doing sit-ups, getting a kiss for every rep he completes from an equally gangly guy holding his feet.

One that posts a picture of himself with his arm around empty air, followed by the Fairly Odd Parent’s trophy meme that’s been adjusted to say “This is where I’d put my boyfriend…IF I HAD ONE.”

#prohomo.

And then there’s another NHL player: a Falconer

And then a Wilkes-Barre player.

A Chicago Wolf.

A Penguin.

A Marlie.

#prohomo.

Eli and Kent sit on the bed with the TV on and their laptops open in quiet, baffled, amazement.

By sunrise, thirteen NHL players (nine active, four retired), seven AHL players, six ECHL players, twelve NCAA players, and eleven juniors have all come out.

#prohomo.

And that’s just the men.

There are women too, though there were already several out female players —NCAA, NWHL, and olympic players and—

Kent is glad they have the day off because he’s not sure he’d be able to function properly on the combined lack of sleep and euphoria.

Eli screams when Kent is in the shower.

“Fuck,” Kent says, dropping his bar of soap. “ _What_?” he yells, and then, maybe the better question: “ _who_?!”

He doesn’t bother turning off the water, just grabs a towel and waddles, dripping, back into the bedroom.

“Who is it?”

Eli turns his laptop so Kent can see and—

It’s Jack’s Instagram.

Jack’s Instagram which, until this point, has consisted entirely of landscape photography and the occasional close-up picture of fresh ice or skates or someone taping their stick.

The latest picture is none of those things.

The latest picture is of Jack’s bed at the Haus. And the bare, sunlight-striped back of the blonde-haired boy sleeping in it.

#prohomo.

“Holy shit,” Kent says.

***

“ _Eric Richard Bittle_ ,” Eli yells.

Eric, still shirtless, still in Jack’s bed, answers Eli’s FaceTime call with a grin so wide it makes Kent’s face hurt by proxy.

“Hey,” Eric says, all shy and demure.

“ _Hey?_ _Hey?!!_ I cannot believe you didn’t _tell_ me,” Eli says. “I called you like, the minute that Kent kissed me. Okay, not the minute. But you knew before anyone else! I am—not hurt, honestly I’m so happy for you, but once I’m done congratulating you, we are going to have _words.”_

Kent, sitting awkwardly next to Eli, leans in so Eric can see him.

“Hi,” he says. “Congratulations. We’re really happy for you guys.”

“Well thank you, Mr. Parson,” Eric says. “And I didn’t… _not_ tell you—it only just happened, really. So I didn’t have a chance to tell you.”

“What do you mean?” Eli asks.

“Well. We—all of the boys—were watching the game last night. And then the press conference after. And then Twitter and Instagram—and Shitty decided to throw an impromptu party at like, one am and Jack and I—“

Eric’s face goes pink.

“We. Uh. _Talked_. About things. And then when we woke up this morning he said he wanted to come out. And asked if I wanted to be part of it. And I said yes. I haven’t even—” his smiles dims by several degrees. “I haven’t had a chance to call Mama yet.”

“That is like, the shortest possible version of a very long story I need to hear in full,” Eli says. “So—“

There’s a noise on Eric’s side of the conversation—a door opening and closing—and Eric glances away from his phone, smile jumping right back up to full wattage.

“Hey Bits,” Jack says, somewhere off-camera. “Someone put vodka in the coffee maker again, so that’s—not going to happen. But I brought you some orange juice and one of those scones you made yesterday. Do you want to go to Annie’s for coffee or—Oh. Hi.”

And there’s a mostly-naked Jack Zimmerman, kneeling on the bed with his arms full of breakfast items, looking charmingly bemused.

“He— _llo_ ,” Eli says slyly as Jack settles next to Eric.

“Hi, Jack,” Kent says.

“Hi Eli. Hi Kenny.”

It should probably be awkward, all things considered, but it doesn’t feel that way.

“So,” Eli says, “Eric was just telling me about how you two both put out on the first date.”

Jack chokes while trying to take a sip of orange juice.

“Technically, there wasn’t even a date,” Eric says.

“You _slut,_ ” Eli says cheerfully.

“I _am_ , aren’t I?” Eric agrees, delighted.

Jack mutters something distinctly Canadian.

“But only for you, sweetheart,” Eric assures him.

“Does that really even count as being slutty, then?” Kent asks.

Eli elbows him.

“Okay,” Eli says, “Kent, Jack, can you two give Eric and I a couple minutes, or can we like, decide a time later today where you two can be somewhere else? We need to talk about our boyfriends.”

“Oh,” Eric says. “We’re not—um.”

“We’re not?” Jack says.

“Oh my god,” Kent mutters.

“You sure as hell _better_ be,” Eli says.

“I’d, uh. Like to be?” Jack says.

“Oh.” Eric says, “Really? Well, I—“ He glances between Jack and his phone screen. “Eli, I’m going to need to call you back.”

“Yes,” Eli agrees. “You do. Go. Talk. Be boyfriends.”

“Bits—“ Jack says quietly.

The call abruptly disconnects.

“Jesus,” Eli says, closing his laptop. “Were we ever that useless?”

“I fake-dated you for three months and said I loved you in my head before I ever pined my way into kissing you for the first time in a fit of rage. I think we were worse.”

Eli considers this for a minute.

“Yeah, okay. That’s fair. On the plus side,that mean’s they’ll probably be just fine, then. Look how great we turned out.”

Kent tackles him.

Gently.

***

Things get better.

The NHL, likely under an enormous amount of pressure, releases a statement later that morning. It says that there will be an internal investigation into the “potential” misconduct that had occurred and that the league will remain in close contact with individual management teams as the situation develops. In addition, they will require all refs to undergo “intensive” diversity training before the playoffs begin, and they will be imposing a “zero tolerance policy” going forward that will dictate anything from steep fines to multi-game suspensions for homophobic or racist infractions.

This is followed by similar statements from various franchises about their “renewed” efforts for curbing prejudicial behavior and their dedication to ensuring that “hockey is for everyone.” Only a few actually claim responsibility for not doing something sooner despite knowing intolerance was taking place, but…

It’s something.

In the following week, sports news programs and magazines and blogs don’t really seem to know how to handle the situation. Most of them put out hasty stories that closely mimic the information in all of their competitors’ stories—rehashing how many players have come out, often lingering on Martel and Okezie and speculating about the potential effects that intra-team relationships might have on team cohesion and performance. The articles range from unbiased and contemplative, to cautiously supportive, to heralding the end of “real” Hockey (and “real men”) as the world knows them.

The day of the Aces first playoff game, Kent is invited to a group chat by Brian Andrews. He figures out pretty quickly that the occupants of the chat are the newly-out NHL, AHL, and ECHL players. The veterans and retirees have taken up paternal roles, checking in and making sure everyone's teams are treating them alright, fielding questions, giving warnings, recommending agents and occasionally bemoaning the youth.

It’s…

It’s everything he needed at eighteen, newly drafted and resigned to a career of loneliness.

He refuses to get emotional about it.

He has hockey to focus on.

Important hockey.

Playoff hockey.

Eli gets an extension on one of his final papers from an understanding history professor so he can attend that night. The professor is conveniently an Aces fan and coincidentally now also has a ticket to the first game in their playoff run.

That would probably be frowned upon by collegiate administration if they knew, but Kent isn’t going to tell anyone.

So his boyfriend is in the stands, wearing Kent’s jersey and screaming his head off, when the Aces win that night.

It’s not an easy first period, the Kings are hardly what you’d call an _easy_ team, but the Aces take the lead in the second and sustain it through the third.

Most importantly, through all the standard chirping and swearing, heightened a bit as it is because, hey, playoffs—there isn’t, or at least Kent doesn’t hear, a single homophobic comment. Not even hissed to him, out of ref earshot in between plays. Or mouthed from the bench. Or said through smiling teeth in the handshake line.

It’s not so much a relief as it is a catharsis.

Media afterward is more or less as hellish as usual, but then he goes out with the guys for a celebratory drink and, even better, goes home to Eli afterward.

Eli, who is on the couch, adorably rumpled, still wearing Kent’s jersey but wrapped in the extra soft blanket from the bedroom, squinting angrily at his laptop.

Kent is pretty sure Eli is going to need reading glasses soon, if he doesn’t already, and he frankly can’t wait.

Kent is 100% certain that Eli in glasses will be adorable.

“Hey,” he says, leaning over the back of the couch to kiss Eli’s temple.

“Hey,” Eli agrees, twisting a little to grin up at him. “1-0 feeling pretty good?”

“It is. How’s it feel to be dating a winner?”

“Pretty good. It’d feel better to date a Stanley Cup champion, I think.”

“Don’t jinx it.”

Kent moves into the kitchen, pours a glass of gatorade over ice and then more or less collapses next to Eli.

“Do you need both your hands?” he mumbles, somewhere in the vicinity of Eli’s thigh.

“I could spare one,” he says, and Kent chooses to ignore the fact that he’s being laughed at.

“I’d appreciate that,” Kent says stoically.

Eli’s fingers make a first, slow pass down Kent’s scalp and he closes his eyes, sighing.

“Have I mentioned I love you?” Kent murmurs.

“Once or twice,” Eli says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:
> 
> Hello from Alabama! It is very humid here but we're having a lovely time picking fresh vegetables and blowing up fireworks and shooting guns and eating pie and generally feeling very 'Murica. 
> 
> I've managed to stay on top of my workload--reading/annotating two books from my quals lists per day--and STILL got this chapter finished on time. So I'm feeling pretty good about that. However, the final chapter might be a tad late since I'll be driving back home/needing to restock on food and unpack and such this time next week. 
> 
> We're so close to the end! Ah!


	50. Chapter 50

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: Kent has a panic attack and generally struggles with anxiety this chapter.

They win the first round against the Kings in five games.

They win round two against the Sharks in four.

They win round three against the Jets in six.

And hoisting the conference cup on opponent ice doesn’t make the victory any less sweet because _the Aces are going to the Stanley Cup final_.

For the first time in franchise history.

Kent manages to make it back home, to his own apartment, to his own bathroom, before having one of the worst panic attacks of his life.

A Xanax takes the edge off but then he just feels awful and lost and like he _should_ be struggling to breathe but can’t, which is nearly as bad as not being able to breathe in the first place. And then, since his brain can’t focus on the static of panic, it focuses instead on all of the mistakes that he’s made in the last series—the kind of mistakes that could cost them the championship if repeated.

So instead of struggling to breathe on the bathroom floor, he’s suddenly crying on the bathroom floor.

For no particular reason that he can determine.

He also can’t seem to stop.

_Fantastic_ , he thinks absently, pressing his eye sockets into his knees. _I’ve finally lost it._

Kit comes to sit with him, which is nice, but what he needs—

Well. He needs to call Anika. He _should_ call Anika.

But what he _wants_ —

He checks his phone.

Eli’s last final exam was two hours earlier and then he had a meeting with his advisor to talk about his schedule next semester, but—

_Can you come home?_ Kent texts him.

And then:

_Now._

And then:

_Please._

Less than two minutes later, Eli calls him.

“Hey,” Kent says, and it’s rough and a little desperate; something he would be embarrassed about if he wasn’t so—whatever he is right now.

“Hey,” Eli says. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“No,” he says, because he’s not.

“I had a panic attack. Took a Xanax. Now I’m just,” he breathes and it doesn’t rattle in his chest, but it doesn’t feel right either. “I don’t know. Something is wrong. _”_

“Okay. Okay, I’m walking out to the parking lot right now, are you at home?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you at home?”

“Bathroom. Kit is with me.”

He doesn’t know why he adds the last part. It seems important.

“Okay, that’s good. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Can you do something for me?”

Anything.

“Yeah.”

“Call Anika. Tell her what’s going on and see if she has any advice. If she doesn’t answer, call me right back, though, okay? And I’ll keep you company while I ride home.”

“Okay,” Kent says.

“I love you,” Eli says. “I’ll see you in just a few minutes. We’ll figure this out.”

“Love you,” Kent agrees.

He hangs up and calls Anika.

***

It’s good the Aces have a week off while they wait for their final opponent to be determined.

For five days, Kent wakes up in his own bed to Eli’s soft hands, soft voice, soft mouth.

“How’s your brain today?” Eli asks every morning and Kent answers “better” every morning and it’s the truth.

He eats. He sleeps. He does light workouts and attends practice and talks to Anika almost daily.

Eli starts a six-week online summer-school course to make up for the one class he dropped during the semester. He hates it, and he’s vocal about it.

“Trouble in paradise?” Jeff asks one day, sitting at the kitchen island and eating guacamole in a way that means the counter will be covered in chip debris later.

Eli is sitting on one side of Jeff, decidedly ignoring Kent who’s on his other side.

“Kent is being homophobic,” Eli mutters.

“Oh?” Jeff says.

“I won’t kiss him until he’s done with this paper,” Kent explains.

“Ah,” Jeff says. “You should call HR, Eli. The NHL is very serious about homophobia now, I’m not sure if you’ve heard.”

“Shut up,” Kent says, and then, to Eli, “I’m just trying to provide incentive. It’s for your own good. Don’t sulk.”

“I’m not sulking,” Eli says sulkily.

Later, when Kent is laying on the couch, not napping, but not really awake either, Eli drops down onto the cushion beside his head, jostling him.

“Hey, Kent. I want to try something.”

“If it’s a sex thing, can it wait until after playoffs?” Kent says, not opening his eyes.

“If it’s a sex thing, can it wait until I’M NOT HERE?” Jeff yells from the kitchen.

They ignore him.

“What?” Kent asks, squinting up at Eli.

“Encouragement kisses. That’s incentive too.”

“Oh my god,” he says, closing his eyes again. “Just go finish the stupid paper.”

“I’ve got eight out of ten pages. I think that deserves a reward. Something to bolster me through the last two.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And _you’re_ lucky I want to kiss you at all considering the way your face looks right now.”

“He has a point,” Jeff says.

He does.

Kent can’t grow a playoff beard to save his life. All he has right now is horrible itchy blonde stubble that gets wispy around his chin and jaw and the corners of his mouth and it’s frankly a miracle that Eli will even look at him right now much less want to get anywhere near him.

Kent sits up, considering his boyfriend. His beautiful boyfriend who does not have terrible facial hair but does need to finish his paper.

“Are you trying to take advantage of me because I’m exhausted and ugly and my defenses are down?” Kent asks.

“Yes,” Eli says.

“Okay,” Kent agrees magnanimously, “come take advantage of me, then.”

Eli grins, climbing into his lap.

“Alright, well, goodbye,” Jeff says.

***

When the Caps win their conference and the final series schedule is announced, Kent asks Eli if they can have a mid-month relationship meeting.

“I need you there,” Kent says, picking at the jagged edge of one of his fingernails. “At all of the games. Home and away. And maybe that isn’t healthy and maybe it isn’t actually true that I _need_ you there but my brain is saying that I do and it’s the Stanley Cup finals, so.”

“Okay,” Eli agrees.

“Okay?”  
Maybe Eli doesn’t understand.

“And you have to let me pay for it,” Kent clarifies. “Flights and hotels and food and everything.”

“Okay,” Eli repeats.

“I don’t understand. I thought this would be an argument. I made _notecards_.”

“Well you can read them to me, if you want. But Kent. This isn’t a vacation or a pair of shoes. It’s the Stanley Cup finals. It’s—you. Your health. If you say you need me there, I’m there.”

Kent should probably start looking for rings.

It’s been six months. Eight, if you count their original not-dates.

That’s enough time, right?

They’d had a conversation about it at the end of April. Well. Sort of. The conversation had mostly consisted of Kent saying, “you’re it for me and I’d like to marry you at some point, cool?” and Eli saying, “cool.” And then they’d moved on to arguing about whether or not Eli would let Kent pay for a two week trip to the Dominican Republic over the summer.

“But think how happy it would make Abuela!” He’d argued. “I need sun and beaches and no stress as part of my recovery, and if you don’t come with me I will be stressed the _whole time_. Also, if you don’t come with me, I’ll spend two weeks with Aba and I’ll have her tell me every embarrassing story from your childhood. Do you think she has pictures?”

Eli eventually agreed that Kent could pay for their trip provided that they A. stayed in Abuela’s guest room, not at some horrible resort, B. Kent didn’t buy him any gifts until their departure date, and C., if the Aces won the Stanley Cup, Kent and Eli would accept the invitation from Ellen to be on her show.

The last condition didn’t really have anything to do with the vacation argument, it was just a holdover from their last two relationship meetings—and one Kent hadn’t been willing to budge on up until that point. Eli really likes Ellen. Kent really likes Eli and the idea of two weeks in the DR with him. He agreed.

They shook on it.

And since then, Kent has been so preoccupied with hockey and planning their vacation that he hasn’t done much thinking about the marriage situation. He starts covert internet research the weekend before the first final game, primarily while using the bathroom.

Eli casually enquires about Kent’s bowel health.

“You know, you could just say you’re planning something secret and I’d leave you alone in the bedroom or the living room or something,” he says. “At this rate you’re going to get a permanent toilet seat indent on your butt and I’ll be very sad.”

Apparently Kent is not very sneaky.

Apparently his boyfriend is also the worst.

He decides to set aside his research until the summer anyway.

He needs to focus on hockey now.

***

The Aces win the first game of the series at home against the Caps.

They lose the second.

Lose the third in DC.

Lose the fourth.

Win the fifth.

Win the sixth.

The final goes to seven games, because of course it does.

At least that means they’re on home ice.

It’s not really a consolation.

Kent is in the bathtub, soaking aching muscles in epsom salts when Eli gets home from the library the night before game seven.

“Hey,” he says, kneeling beside the tub, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. “How’s it going?”

“Everything hurts,” Kent says, honest. “And I’m afraid I won’t be able to sleep tonight. But I _have_ to sleep tonight to play well tomorrow and I _have_ to play well tomorrow but if I can’t _sleep_ —“

“I know,” Eli says, lowly. “Shhh. It’s okay.” He somehow manages to shush Kent without sounding condescending.

Kent isn’t sure how he feels about that.

Eli kisses the corner of Kent’s mouth, wetting a washcloth to rub along the line of his collarbone.

Kent closes his eyes again.

“Do you want me to wash your hair?” Eli asks a few minutes later, because he’s the best and Kent can never hope to deserve him.

“Yes, please.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want me to make pancakes and omelettes again tomorrow?” he murmurs, fingers working against Kent’s scalp in a vanilla-smelling lather.

“Yeah,” he says. “With—“

“Blueberries,” Eli agrees. “And I picked up more spinach for the omelettes on the way home, too.”

They’ve been eating the same thing for breakfast for the last several days. It’s what Kent had to eat the morning before game one, and then again before game five, and then game six, and now, apparently it’s part of his routine.

“My superstitious weirdo,” Eli says affectionately, tugging at the shell of one of his ears. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“So lucky,” Kent agrees. “But I’m really not that superstitious. There are a lot of guys who are worse than me.”

Eli snorts, scratching at the nape of Kent’s neck in a way that makes him feel wobbly and limp.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been wearing the same pair of underwear every day since game three of the second round.”

Kent was, actually, hoping Eli hadn’t noticed that.

“I’ve been _washing_ them,” he says defensively.

“Thank god for small mercies. And no you haven’t. _I’ve_ been washing them.”

Oh. Right.

Kent really is lucky Eli loves him.

“Did you know you’ve become a meme?” Eli asks conversationally, tipping Kent’s head back to rinse the suds out of his hair.

“A meme?” Kent repeats.

“Mmm. That screen cap I posted on Instagram of you sitting in the sin bin looking all grumpy from the last game. Someone paired it up with a picture of Kit sitting in a box from your Instagram and now everyone is making “if I fits I sits” jokes.

That actually sounds pretty great.

“Can you show me?”

“Mmhm. Got it pulled up on my laptop. It’s waiting on the bed.”

“Is that where we’re going next?” he says hopefully, trying not to groan out loud as Eli starts to work conditioner into his hair.

“Yessir,” Eli agrees. “I’m going to rub you down with your fancy version of Vapor Rub because apparently that’s a service I provide now, and then tuck you in and make sure you get to sleep.”

Kent pouts a little.

“You know, I’ve read,” Kent says, “—from very official scientific sources—that orgasms make people sleepy.”

“Kenneth,” Eli says sternly. “I am not going to encourage you risking a sex injury the night before game seven in the Stanley Cup final.”

“We could be really careful.”

Eli rolls his eyes.

“Tilt your head back,” he says, turning on the water to rinse Kent’s hair again.

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a maybe.”

That means it’s a yes.

Kent grins and ends up choking on a mouthful of water.

***

Kent honestly doesn’t remember much of the game.

He remembers taping his stick. Re-taping his stick. Taping it a third time because it has to be perfect.

He remembers sweating in the Ace’s mirrored tunnel, the itch of anxiety at the back of his throat and clenched around his stomach, waiting for the announcer to shout, loud and at last over the PA system, _and now, your captain: Kent Paaaarrsssooonnn._

And then his skates hit the ice and things go a little blurry.

He remembers chewing on the front of his jersey during the anthem.

He remembers assisting Tater on a goal in the first.

He remembers fury when the Caps turn right back around and score less than a minute later.

He remembers taking a hard check in the second.

Screaming Rushy’s name over a fantastic block in the third.

Getting slashed.

Two broken fingers.

Getting treated on the bench and shoving them back in his glove.

Scoring on a breakaway even though his hand is screaming in pain.

He’s not on the ice when the clock runs out.

He’s just finished a shift and he’s leaned onto his elbows over the boards, breathing hard, shaking sweat out of his eyes, watching the puck, which is _uncomfortably_ close to their net and the Caps are on the power play and the Caps only need one goal to tie, to go into overtime, and Kent doesn’t know if he’ll survive that if it happens, he’s so damn tired, and his hand hurts and his head hurts and— 

_Please,_ he thinks.

_Please._

_Please._

_Please._

The horn sounds and for a moment he closes his eyes—relief rather than ecstasy—until he remembers:

He did it.

_They_ did.

They’re Stanley Cup champions.

_Holy Shit._

He doesn’t remember most of what comes next, either, but he does remember holding the cup.

Kissing the cup—cold against his chapped mouth.

He remembers passing the cup to Rads who’s probably skating on a broken ankle.

Who isn’t coming back next year.

Who’s definitely crying when he lifts the cup out of Kent’s hands and pushes it straight up into the air, yelling.

The cup is both heavier and lighter than Kent expected.

There are a lot of pictures and hugging and the tacky residue of spilled champagne everywhere and Eli throwing himself into Ken’t arms.

It’s probably good he doesn’t have a ring yet because if he did he’d be on one knee right then and even if Eli didn’t kill him for proposing in front of approximately a billion cameras after less than a year of knowing each other, Eli’s mother definitely would.

He manages to make it to the locker room, to say a soundbite for some reporters and strip mostly out of his gear before the adrenaline wears off enough that he realizes he’s breathing harder than he should be and his hands are shaking.

He looks around and can’t find Eli.

Hawke is there, a few feet away, and Jeff is telling Cookie that _no he cannot give the dog beer, what the hell is wrong with you?_ which would be funny if Kent wasn’t—whatever he is right now.

He doesn’t even know.

He has so many emotions that he can’t even—

He is a _hemorrhage_.

Leaking feelings everywhere with absolutely no idea how to contain them or even if he should and—

Oh.

_There he is._

Kent’s mind quiets down a little when he sees Eli, talking to Jessica just outside the open door of the locker room.

Kent pushes his way through the guys, grabs Eli’s wrist, and pulls him further down the hallway. Past camera crews and security and a concerned looking Jeff with his arm around Alex.

Kent doesn’t know where he’s going but—

Yes.

Perfect.

“Oh my god,” Eli says as the door closes behind them, “are we in an actual broom closet? I thought that only happened in movies. What are we doing? Are we going to make out? I really don’t think the guys will care if we do that in front of them at this point. They’re already like three beers deep and your gay ass just won them the Stanley cup, you know?”

“Hey,” Jeff says outside, knocking on the door. “I thought your whole thing was about being out of the closet?”

“Shut up, Swoops,” Kent yells back, and his voice might actually crack.

“Oh,” Eli says, serious all of the sudden. “Hey, what’s going on? Are you—“

And Kent just.

Sort of wraps himself around Eli.

Tucks his face into his neck.

And maybe sobs a little.

“Okay,” Eli says. “Okay. This is good too. Hey. Whatever you need. I’m so proud of you, you know? I’m so proud of you and you worked so hard and I love you so much. More than love you. So much more than love you. Oh shit. Okay. Well, I’m crying too now. Thanks for that.”

They just sort of cling to each other for a few minutes until Kent’s breathing has evened out and the hallway slowly gets louder and then Matts opens the door to peek inside.

“You guys,” he yells to the assembled group outside, “they’re not even fucking. They’re just crying all over each other.”

“Fuck you,” Kent says, smearing his sweaty, tear-streaked face against Eli’s. “We just won the Stanley Cup. I’m allowed to have feelings about it.”

“That is fair,” Moose says seriously.

Moose is leaning against the wall outside the closet, wearing his Under Armour shorts and only one sock.

Moose is definitely already drunk.

Rookies.

“You want to have feelings in the locker room with everyone else, Captain?” Rads asks. He’s got a crutch under one arm and a massive grin on his face.

“Yeah,” Kent says, “Yeah, alright. Where’s the cup? I need to drink some fucking champagne out of it with my boyfriend.”

That gets a cheer.

***

Kent wakes up the following day just after 11 am because his phone is buzzing in his hand. It’s a text from Tater: _Everyone is hangover._

He blinks at his phone in agreement.

He’s in his own bed, which is good.

 Eli is asleep on one side of him.

Also good.

The cup is tucked under the covers on the other.

_So_ good.

Kit is half inside the bowl of the cup and Hawke is sprawled across their feet, cutting off Kent’s circulation.

He grins at the ceiling for a solid minute before getting up, slowly, to use the bathroom, take some heavy-duty painkillers because his hangover is actually eclipsed by the throbbing of his broken fingers, drink an entire gatorade that drunk-him was kind enough to leave on the nightstand, and take a shower. By the time he’s brushing his teeth, damp and feeling a little more human, the ache in both his head and his hand have subsided enough for the euphoria to take back over.

When he returns to the bed, he has to climb over the cup to get to Eli, to press fresh minty kisses all over his scrunched-up grumpy face.

“What?” Eli mutters. He has a magnificent case of bedhead. There might be confetti in his curls.

In a few minutes they’ll need to get up. Make sure everyone is still alive and figure out when the parade is and hash out the schedule for the whole post-final media circus. And he’s already thinking he wants to take the cup to Pride, and invite all the other out players from the group chat—that he’ll need to call Jessica and maybe You Can Play? And he did promise Eli at their last Relationship Meeting that if the Aces won, they would accept that invitation to Ellen. So he should also probably—

But not yet.

All of that can wait.

Because the shades are blocking the morning sun and the duvet is crinkly around them.

Eli is warm and soft and beautiful and he smells like peppermint schnapps for some unholy reason and Kent loves him, so, so much.

For now, at least for the next few minutes, it’s just them.

And _just them_ is his favorite thing.

“What?” Eli repeats, a little bemused now.  
Probably because Kent is staring at him like a dope.

“Nothing. Just.”

Kent kisses him one more time.

“Hi.”

Eli blinks up at him. Smiles a little. Kisses him back.

“Hi,” he agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:
> 
> Well. Here we are. 
> 
> For those of you who followed this from the start--especially those of you who commented on every chapter or sent me messages on Tumblr--thank you so much! There were several weeks where, if it weren't for the fact that I knew so many people were waiting, I would have put off writing. Knowing people care is the best remedy for writer's block that I've found and I think I can honestly say this is the best (and longest!) thing I've ever written. So thank you. You enabled that.
> 
> I know I've been terrible about answering comments (frankly, I just don't have time to catch up at this point) but I promise to respond to EVERY comment on this last chapter. So if you've had any questions/things you wanted to say/talk about and haven't--now is the time!
> 
> I love all of you. Please subscribe or follow me on Tumblr (I'm also xiaq there) if you want to keep up with my writing. Hopefully, I'll see you around. :)

**Author's Note:**

> I almost titled this "Not the WIP I'm supposed to be working on."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Eli and Hawke](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14875038) by Anonymous 
  * [Eli and Hawke](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14875172) by Anonymous 
  * [Like Real People Do - Cover Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14884613) by [Dassandre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dassandre/pseuds/Dassandre)




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